The Ghost and The Graveyard (The Monk's Hill Witch)
Read The Ghost and The Graveyard (The Monk's Hill Witch) Online
Authors: Genevieve Jack
Tags: #General Fiction
The Ghost
and
The Graveyard
Genevieve Jack
The Ghost and The Graveyard: The Monk’s Hill Witch series, Book 1
Copyright © 2012 Carpe Luna Publishing
Published by Carpe Luna, Ltd., PO Box 5932, Bloomington, IL 61701
www.carpeluna.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Second Edition: February 2013
eISBN: 978-0-9852367-3-1
Cover design by Adam Bedore at Anjin Design, photo by Hot Damn Designs.
www.anjindesign.com
v 1.0
I Get What I Pay For
Welcome to Red Grove.
Population 200
“N
ow, two hundred and one,” I murmured as I passed the painted wooden sign in my trusty red Jeep. I was here to start over. Could a new life be hiding behind the lackluster rural exterior? Judging by the cemetery on my left, Red Grove was where people came to die, not to live. Hell, I think there were more than two hundred headstones stretched across the landscape. More dead than living.
There must be some mistake.
I double-checked the notebook with my father’s scrawled directions resting on the passenger’s seat next to me. When I shifted my attention back to my driving, my foot drifted from the gas, and I overcorrected the wheel.
Holy shit!
The man on the side of the road was so attractive I could’ve died—literally. He was planting something. A tree, I think. Every time his shovel hit the dirt, it sent a ripple through his shoulders and down his stomach. The glint of sun on tanned, shirtless skin had me raising an eyebrow in appreciation. Dark hair, low slung jeans. I tried not to gawk, but the best I could do was to keep my head inside the window.
I was thinking he belonged in a museum, a chiseled-by-the-gods man museum, when my brain was hijacked. I forgot about the road. I forgot where I was going. A fantasy hit me so fast and hard, it could’ve been a memory.
We were in the shower. I was behind him, my arms wrapped around his torso. I rubbed lather circles down his chest, over his rock-hard abs, and lower. In my daydream, he moaned my name, and I was considering how to move myself around him without breaking the rhythm. The scene was so vivid, the lavender scent of soap filled the cab of my Jeep.
What snapped me out of it was a barrage of pebbles hitting the undercarriage. I slammed on the brakes, sending my vehicle into a reckless skid toward the edge of a stone bridge straight out of one of those Thomas Kinkade prints. Whether it was ace driving skills, gravity, or sheer dumb luck, I stalled at the precipice, all white-knuckles and shivering limbs. I suppressed a lingering fear of plummeting to my doom.
“Hey, are you okay?” the man called. He’d dropped his shovel and was heading toward me, his dark eyes narrowed in concern.
No way was I explaining what just happened. I couldn’t possibly tell him about my fantasy and I wasn’t a good enough liar to make up an alternate story on the fly. The hot sting of a blush crept across my face just thinking about it.
“I’m okay. Thanks!” I gave a friendly wave out my window.
He nodded at me but didn’t stop walking toward my car.
Before he could reach me, I accelerated back on course, leaving him staring in my direction. I wasn’t trying to be rude. Besides the obvious embarrassment, I had no business talking to a man who looked like that. I had no business talking to
any
man. Not until I got my life back together.
I reached the end of the road and pulled into the driveway of the house that would be my salvation, my financial rebirth. The truth was, I had bigger things to worry about than a man on the side of the road, no matter how gorgeous. It was time to face my future.
Wedged behind the tailgate of my Jeep was one, large moving box. I sighed. My entire life fit inside a cardboard cube with the logo of a defunct trucking company. Technically, the box wasn’t even mine; I’d borrowed it from my friend Michelle.
The wrinkled cardboard flaps bowed like judgmental eyebrows, and I slapped them down with unnecessary vigor before reaching for the mammoth cargo. Too big to carry from the bottom without completely blocking my face but without those convenient cutout handles you find on cases of beer, I hoisted the box using the pressure hold, bear-hugging the cardboard to my chest and resting the bottom on my knee. Of course, this meant I was doing the shuffle step up the stone pathway to the porch as the box slid down my body centimeter by centimeter. By the time I reached the bottom step, I was holding it up with my flexed foot and hopping toward the door.
That’s when my hip started vibrating. With one final heave and a contortion of my limbs that must’ve looked to the squirrel watching me from the lawn like I was having a seizure, I propelled the box onto the porch and ripped the phone from my pocket.
“Hello,” I said, in a tone that clearly meant goodbye.
“Grateful? Is that you?”
It was my best friend, Michelle, so I put on my happy voice. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry, you just caught me trying to launch the moving box from hell onto the porch.”
“I knew I should’ve helped you move.”
“It’s one box. I think I can handle it.”
“Right. That bastard.”
“It was my own fault. I handed him the money. Who gives a boyfriend that kind of money?” I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity.
“You can’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault for trusting someone you loved. I’m telling you, you’re a victim of the blonde paradox.”
Michelle and I attended nursing school together. After we graduated, I’d had enough of academia. She, on the other hand, decided to pursue a master’s degree in mental health nursing. Now she thinks she knows everything about relationships and psychoanalyzes all of my problems.
Her blonde paradox theory is based on two recent research studies—the type you read about in magazines at grocery store checkouts. The first study found that women who look like Barbie—blonde, blue eyed, big boobs—are more attractive to men. Something about these features signifies a more fertile womb to the caveman brain. I loosely fit this description. I do have blue eyes but my hair is more of a honey blonde than platinum. My boobs are on the large side but it’s because I’m about fifteen pounds heavier than my goal weight. However, Michelle thinks I am close enough to ignite evolutionary passions and this explains why I never lack masculine attention.
But here’s the rub. The second study found that men shown pictures of Barbie-ish women scored lower on intelligence tests. Turns out people who believe the “blondes are dumb” stereotype actually take on the projected characteristics of their prejudicial target. Thus the paradox. I attracted more men than the average woman, but they degraded into idiots in my presence.
The theory did explain some things. Like why I ended up with my snake-belly of an ex-boyfriend, Gary, while Michelle, who was 5’2” and 160 pounds of dark-headed attitude, was married with a baby.
“So, what should I do? Dye my hair?” I asked.
“Or contacts. Green might be nice.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“No. I’m not. You’re a wonderful person. You just need to find someone who will love you for you, the whole package. I know he’s out there, somewhere.”
“I hope you’re right. I can’t take another Gary,” I said.
Silence. Michelle was probably holding her tongue so that she wouldn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Smart woman. “So what’s the free house look like? Is it as bad as you expected?” she finally asked.
“No. It’s super cute! I can’t believe this place hasn’t sold. Great curb appeal, fresh paint. Hold on, I’m going inside.”
I fumbled in my pocket for the key and turned it in the brass lock. The door opened and the sun cast a square of light around my silhouette. I patted the wall for the light switch and soon an elegant chandelier glowed from above.
“Wow, Michelle, it’s fabulous! You have got to see this. Hardwood floors, two-story foyer, curved staircase.” I walked into the kitchen. “Holy crow, stainless steel appliances!”
