Bump in the Night Read online

  Bump in the Night

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2021

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  A NOTE TO MY READERS:

  I appreciate every one of you.

  DEDICATED TO:

  Everyone who likes a little bump in their night.

  Especially the kind where the headboard puts

  a dent in the wall.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

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  About Dani

  Chapter 1

  Delia

  “This is a joke, right?”

  I squint at the invitation in my hand, stifling a yawn as I scratch my neck beneath the itchy knock-off Burberry wool scarf I wear almost every day from the beginning of October to the end of March.

  It’s kicking up on eight in the morning, and besides the fact I have yet to have one drop of coffee, I didn’t get off my shift at the roulette table until three.

  To say I’m not at peak performance is an understatement.

  “I do not joke, Madame. You are Agnes Cordelia Anderson, correct?” His tight, somewhat condescending voice matches his uptight suit, but he doesn’t seem unfriendly. “Your great-grandmother was Mrs. Cordelia Anderson, head cook to Mr. Parker Worthington the First.”

  Mr. Parker Worthington the First.

  “Yes, I am,” I reply, thinking through that history. My great-grandmother. I know barely anything about her except who she worked for. “But everyone calls me Delia.”

  He says it like he’s announcing the man for dinner, not referring to someone who lived before cars were invented.

  I look the man standing in front of me up and down, thinking he could be a butler in Downton Abbey. A relic, my mother would have called him. From another time. Part of me wonders if he actually is a time traveler, but with Halloween only five days away, I figure he’s got his costume perfected a little early.

  I wrinkle my nose and re-read the invitation. The thick paper is so white it nearly glows, the black ink lettering more calligraphy than cursive.

  As a descendant of an esteemed staff member, you are cordially invited to attend the Calmore Estate for a one off opportunity to…

  “I don’t understand. So, you’re Mr. Worthington’s attorney? Delivering invitations to a contest?”

  “The present Mr. Worthington, yes.” His upper lip doesn’t move when he speaks. It’s weird. “What is it you don’t understand?”

  I shake my head and wave the invitation, letter, thing up in the air between us, but he doesn’t even blink. “Any of it,” I state, exasperated.

  “It’s quite clear, Madam. Mr. Worthington’s great-grandfather had very clear stipulation in his will regarding the disposition of the Calmore Estate. Mr. Worthington is honoring the legalities thereby set forth.”

  “So, his great-grandfather’s will said he should gift the estate to a descendant of his staff? My great-grandmother was his cook, so I get invited to a contest to stay at the house? If I make it through the night, or whatever, he’s going to give me the house? His grandfather’s will said he should have a contest to give the house away? Am I the only one invited?” I shake my head harder this time squeezing my eyes shut and pushing my fingers into the sockets. “Like I said, I don’t understand. What’s the catch?”

  “The catch is, you must win. Otherwise, you get nothing. More will be explained when you arrive. A car will be sent to pick you up as indicated, at seven PM Friday. A suggested attire list is included in the ooon-velope. We will see you then. Good day, Miss Anderson.”

  “Win? Like, battle to the death? Or, who can jump rope the longest? How do you win?”

  He nods, spinning on his heel, his back impossibly straight as he walks down the walkway to the waiting limo I’m left standing on the little front stoop of the duplex I share with three roommates on the south side of the middle of nowhere, Michigan.

  “Who the hell was that?”

  Michael, one of my roommates, is standing behind me in the doorway when I turn around, holding in a puff of smoke as he chokes out the words between tightened lips.

  I give him a stiff glare. “No smoking in the house, man. What part of that do you not understand?”

  He steps one bare foot out the front door next to where I’m standing, apparently unaware of the temperature in his boxers and t-shirt, and exhales his morning medicinal joint as I flap my hand between us, trying to dissipate the smoke.

  “House rules.” I point to the two sheets of white paper I posted yet again yesterday on the cork board just inside the front entry. “Rule one, no smoking inside.”

  I really don’t mind he smokes. Cigarettes or otherwise. What I do mind, is that I have an allergy to cigarette smoke, as well as asthma, and the No Smoking rule was agreed when I decided to rent this place with my friend Harlow from work and her boyfriend, Logan.

  Two months later, Michael came along as their third and he agreed to the exact same rules as the others. Truth, I welcomed the possibility of cutting my expenses by adding another roommate. Especially since they would all be sharing the same bedroom and I’m not here that much anyway. Working at the local casino pays the bills, but barely.

  But it’s still hard enough living with three other people in a two-bedroom townhouse, let alone the fact that the other three of them are in a poly sort of triad relationship and I’m the odd man out.

  I close the screen door behind me, giving Michael the side eye as he leans on the railing, taking another puff, oblivious to my annoyance. I shake my head and turn to work my way back to the kitchen where my own personal crack is beckoning.

  He has his morning medicinal needs, and so do I.

  Coffee. Strong, black and in large quantities.

  Harlow and Logan are sitting at the dinette table eating Lucky Charms, and I wince as they both slurp and chomp with their mouths open, sounding like pigs at a trough. They were both on the back porch passing a green glass bong between them when I walked by to see who was ringing the doorbell at this God-awful hour.

  They don’t say anything as I come in. I’ve known them long enough they understand; until I’ve ingested at least two mugs of my morning drug, I’m not big on words. Or human contact.

  Or living, for that matter.

  I rub my forehead with one hand while I set the invitation on the counter then prep the coffeemaker. I dump in a mixture of my favorite Michigan Cherry and Dark Roast and count the seconds, holding my empty, needy mug under the slow drip until it’s full,
then replace it with the glass carafe.

  I lean back against the counter, unwilling to move too far from the coffee maker, even though the chomping and slurping sounds from my roommates are about to send me into a homicidal rage.

  Then I take the first hot sip and feel it down into my bones, a shred of my humanity returning. Coffee makes everything okay.

  “So…” Michael saunters through the kitchen from outside done with his morning smoke, his gray t-shirt not hanging quite low enough to cover the spread opening in his cartoon-print boxers, and I sigh as I avert my gaze.

  He opens the cabinet, grabs a cereal bowl, then a spoon, and joins Harlow and Logan in their morning cereal-killing ritual.

  Three peas in a poly-pod.

  “Who was that dude? Rude to be knocking so early. People be trying to sleep.” Michael adds pouring his cereal.

  Harlow gives him a kick under the table. He’s new, but after two months, he should know better than to attempt conversation with me this early.

  “Ignore him, Delia,” she says. “I’ll teach him later.”

  “Promises, promises.” Michael retorts on a wicked lick of his lips.

  She snorts a laugh and I shake my head on a wry smile at their playful banter. Their setup isn’t something I’d want, but it seems to work for them.

  “Sooo,” Michael starts clearly not taking the hint looking at me as he speaks. “Who. Is. I mean…was. The. Dude. At. The. Door?” He accentuates each word with his spoon held in the air like he’s ringing a bell.

  “Got invited to some Halloween thing,” I manage, hoping a short answer will satisfy him.

  No such luck.

  He nods, shoving a full spoon of cereal into his mouth. “Cool beans.” He keeps talking, his words garbled by the mouthful of Lucky Charms. “I dig Halloween. Candy that is.” He snorts a laugh, milk dribbling down his chin as he rubs the back of his hand across his lips.

  Harlow gives me a sympathetic and curious look, tipping her head toward the front door. “Kinda early for formal wear.”

  She’s not pushing, which I appreciate. She knows if there’s something to tell her I’ll find her later and commiserate. Unlike her, I’m not much into group dynamics.

  She’s the only one of my roommates that knows much about me honestly. We’ve been roommates for a couple years. We met at the casino, where she was a waitress at the time and we’d both just been evicted from our apartments. Common misery is great for bonding. She’s now bartending at a swanky club on the shinier side of town.

  It was only a couple weeks after we met that and rented our first place together she had the unfortunate experience of having to wake me from one of my nightmares. Something I’ve battled since I was around twelve years old.

  The dreams are all variations on a theme. Ghosts or demons or shadow figures that seem to be suffocating me. My doctor said it’s probably a buried fear from my asthma. Not being able to breathe, real or imagined, is no fun to say the least. But, my dreams aren’t just dreams. It’s called sleep paralysis and it usually ends up with me screaming and fighting to try to wake up from a dream where I’m stuck. Unsure what is real and what is a nightmare. Sometimes, in my dream, I feel like I wake up only to realize, I’m really not awake and it’s like some horrible fun house where you can’t trust what you think you see or feel.

  So, in short, me and sleep have always had a rather contentious relationship.

  I draw another sip of coffee, fortifying myself then replying to Harlow’s comment about what the man at the door was wearing. “Agreed. Definitely too early for formal wear.”

  I cross my ankles, looking down at my old-maid pink and cream colored slippers, tapping my toes on the floor, remembering when I was a kid, going with my parents to the Calmore Estate Halloween parties. My mother had told me her grandmother had worked there as a cook way back when, but she never knew much more about her only that she had died in some accident not far from there.

  The Worthington family was what is known around these parts as a ‘cereal baron’. Battle Creek, Michigan, the birthplace of modern cereal making, and from the crunching and slurping in this kitchen, it’s my opinion cereal companies infuse their products with some sort of addictive substance.

  It’s been probably ten, maybe fifteen years since they stopped having the parties. I read in the local news they were bringing back the party this year, for some sort of big celebration or other. They were big extravaganzas from what I remember, the entire community turned out for free candy, everyone dressed in costumes, the castle-like house decked out for the holiday. There was always a big tent with games for the kids, a big buffet of spooky sorts of food, but no one was ever allowed inside the main house.

  Rumor was always that the place was haunted, and as the years went on, that rumor only grew as old Mr. Worthington passed away and the gates of the estate have been locked ever since.

  Guess it’s dumb luck I’m off for the weekend and the thought of even the slightest of possibilities that I could turn my life on its head and win this contest?

  I think it’s worth a shot. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

  Chapter 2

  Silas

  “Ashby!” I bellow for the fourth time, my voice reverberating off the dark walnut walls of the office.

  On a huff, I spin in my chair and press the buzzer labeled ‘Butler’ on the copper panel behind the desk. I don’t hear a sound myself, but I’m aware that in all the areas of the house where the service staff might be working, a bell is ringing.

  The antiquated sort of com system is still in working order. And, to my irritation, Ashby, the more than loyal head of the minimal staff that still tends to Calmore, insists I use it instead of just hollering his name through the labyrinthine halls and corridors of the estate built by my great-grandfather the original Parker Silas Worthington, my namesake even though I go by my middle name. Too many Parkers in this family as far as I’m concerned.

  I’m more a bellower than a button pusher, and I like immediate results not waiting in silence. But I count to ten, just like I was taught in my latest anger management class, my irritation growing with each numeral I recite.

  Three. Four. Blah fucking blah. Ten.

  “Fuck this.” I grunt, shoving the chair back from the desk where more than a dozen monitors glare back at me.

  As if it’s not bad enough I have to press some century-old intercom, Ashby refuses to use a cell phone even though I bought him a top of the line one specifically for this weekend. And of course, this monstrosity of a house had no WiFi, so I paid out the ass for a line to be dug from the local servicer and boosters to be installed everywhere, so the signal would reach from one end of the place to the other.

  Just as I stomp to the door and swing it open, I wince, as I find Ashby standing there like a stone statue.

  “You rang, M’lord?” he intones, reminding me of Lurch from The Addams Family as he bows his head, his arms stick-straight down his sides.

  I nod on an eye roll. “Yes. What the fuck is going on?”

  “As far as?”

  “As far as everything. Where’s Dalton? Have the limos been dispatched? Is the dinner prepared? Are the rooms ready? Did they all agree to come or did anyone back out?”

  I abhor disorganization and my less than warm bedside manner in life and business is no surprise to anyone by now.

  “I can assure you, sir, the dinner preparation is well underway. As far as your other questions, those are out of the realm of my responsibility. Mr. Dalton is in the east wing, overseeing the preparation of the rooms and the security cameras as you instructed. If you’d like me to relay your queries to Mr. Dalton, I am happy to do so. I shall return with his answers forthwith.”

  I shall return with his answers forthwith.

  What are we living in some PBS period drama?

  I shake my head. “No, I’ll call his cell. If you’d use one, would make life a lot easier.”

  “No thank you.” Ashby’s hard
gaze shifts over my shoulder with a flicker of something lifelike in his eyes. If he worked for me, I’d fire him. Unfortunately, he’s paid by the trust that runs the estate, same as Dalton, same as the rest of the staff. A trust that I’ll be upending if things go as I plan.

  And they always go as I plan.

  I turn my head to look behind me but don’t see anything of interest.

  When I turn back, his eyes are back on mine. “Will that be all?”

  I start to say something shitty in reply, but from behind him I see my family attorney, Dalton Myer, approaching. He’s got the same gray pallor and suit that makes him look more like a butler than the actual butler.

  He and Ashby give each other some weird knowing look, then Ashby retreats out the door on a bow.

  I march back behind the desk with Dalton following, then pinch the bridge of my nose before dropping back in the chair and grabbing my phone to check my messages. It’s a hell of a time to be away from my offices in Chicago, but for years I’ve been trying to find a loophole that would allow me to unload this monstrosity and put in an airport on the land.

  Only, my great-grandfather’s will and trust is ironclad.

  “You wished to see me?” Dalton asks and I give him a squint.

  “Yes. But, how did you kn…” I wave my hand in front of my face, deciding to leave it alone. I just want this party to get started so it can be finished. “Whatever. Is all the equipment in place and tested?”

  “Yes,” he answers, his lips barely moving when he speaks. His skin looks like it’s been embalmed. “Every bedroom is wired as requested, all of the public areas where the guests will be allowed are as well. Cameras with night vision. Listening devices. All in place per your plans, all functioning. Monitors and control equipment are set up in your command center, per your diagram. The…ahem…extra effects equipment is all installed and tested as well.”