Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story Read online

  This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers.

  Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design by Ampersand Book Covers

  Copyright © 2019 Alyson Santos

  All Rights Reserved

  Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story Contents

  Prologue: 723 Maple Avenue

  Chapter One: Monster

  Chapter Three: Silent Screams

  Chapter Four: Visions

  Chapter Five: Rachel

  Chapter Six: Caverns

  Chapter Seven: Angels and Demons

  Chapter Eight: Liars

  Chapter Nine: Ugly, Beautiful Things

  Chapter Ten: Color in the Darkness

  Chapter Eleven: Left Behind

  Chapter Twelve: Home

  Chapter Thirteen: Walking Away

  Chapter Fourteen: Miracles

  Chapter Fifteen: Cravings

  Chapter Sixteen: Lyrics and Lies

  Chapter Seventeen: Secrets

  Chapter Eighteen: Perfection

  Chapter Nineteen: Arms of a Sinner

  Chapter Twenty: Mystic Seasons

  Chapter Twenty-One: Haunted Melody

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Angel of Death

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Shining

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Decisions

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Two Days

  Chapter Twenty-Six: One Day

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shadows and Light

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: King of the Moonlight

  Epilogue

  More from Alyson

  Playlist

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from NIGHT SHIFTS BLACK

  Prologue:

  723 Maple Avenue

  Seven twenty-three Maple Avenue was splendid once. Enviable, even, at its erection in 1852 with tall windows that welcomed banners of sunlight. The second-floor terrace gave its owner a stage to boast his status—a banker or railroad man, they said. Some rumors placed him as a distant Vanderbilt relation, though his lack of legacy after his death cast doubt on that. His wife, a silent woman of pristine etiquette, enjoyed her own moments of privilege under a spring breeze on the spacious front porch. She’d often be seen knitting tiny stockings and blankets suitable for an infant.

  The morning sun brightened the library and second floor master suite on the east side of the mansion. The evening sun painted a breathtaking mural for the study and baby’s room on the west side. Four more bedrooms, a large kitchen, a sitting room, and another bath completed the structure that had been designed to harbor the echo of happy children.

  The estate house was built to pass through the generations with ancestral pride. The architect and his wife spent countless hours discussing the future and envisioning a crowd of grandchildren littering the lawn. Their offspring would want for nothing, so he worked at amassing a fortune while she worked at procuring every material possession necessary to run a bustling household. They poured their souls into their children’s futures until their deaths in 1878—childless.

  Chapter One:

  Monster

  I never used to be afraid of the dark. But in this house, I’m not the only one.

  Addie Rose is upstairs with Lena, and I use the solitude to sketch. It’s quiet in the basement, cold and damp, but it’s also the most private space in the house. Perfect for an artist like me who loves solitude and hates Roy Jacobs.

  There was a time when the pencil in my hand was a guitar, the notebook a stage. I was Milo Marchesi, a man who feared nothing, let alone some dusty shadows. Now, sprawled out on a pile of blankets I share with Addie, I’m a lot of things I didn’t used to be. More importantly, I’m not a lot of things. Maybe that’s why it’s called a halfway house. All of us are here because we’re half. Half old, half new.

  The forgotten mansion we call home sits back from prominent Maple Avenue like a grotesque memorial to our half-ness. “Olde Towne” they call this section of what used to be an upscale neighborhood. I suppose it’s better than Dump Town which is what my father always said. House 723 is the worst of them though it was probably beautiful once. No one builds a structure with chipping paint, sagging porticos, and cracked window casings. It takes neglect and pain to wilt beauty at this scale, which is why this one suffered a worse fate than the other houses.

  Only those who don’t have a choice would call it home.

  I flinch at the creak above me, and glance up just in time to catch a mouthful of dust from the ceiling. Coughing out the debris, I shift to avoid any more unwelcome gifts from the upstairs residents. I didn’t choose the basement, of course, but 723 Maple Avenue is not a democracy. When you live with others long enough, it happens no matter how twisted the family: Winners and losers. Am I one of the losers? Maybe. Sometimes I think I’m the only winner.

  My left hand is still moving over the page when I look down again.

  Shit! I jump back, the pencil jabbing into my leg. I barely feel the burn as I stare at the image, pulse pounding, chills rushing over my skin. It’s her again. I don’t know why—I don’t know how—but there she is screaming back in silent agony. I snap the cover shut.

  Breathing hard, I shove the book away and slide back to the wall. I clench my eyelids together, but the darkness blocks nothing. She’s still there, shrieking at me with her long, straight hair, almost black like the vacant shadow hiding her face. That’s the worst part. The shrouded nothingness of her form clothed in a faded, decaying dress. That, and the scream I can feel but not hear. Addie Rose calls her Grave Lady.

  A heavy thump thunders down the stairs, sending chills over my skin. My heart beats faster, the wound in my leg throbbing with each beat. The pain, though, is easy for me. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t open your eyes.

  Thump.

  The pauses are worse, when the silence echoes fear into a pulse. I hear it pounding through the darkness.

  Thump.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  The footsteps become steady. One stair after the other. Down, louder, closer. Determined. Could it be her? It has to be. Oh god, please don’t let it be her.

  Don’t look!

  If only I could block out sound as well. Eyes still closed, I hear the steps end with a distinctive thud on the dirt floor. She’s close now. Just feet away, and still coming. I catch every whisper of movement toward the door of my small room. How many steps left? How many seconds? When it stops, I sense her presence hovering in the threshold, watching me. Maybe if I don’t open my eyes she’ll disappear. It worked once. But right now that empty face and long black hair is fresh in my awareness. She made sure of that, didn’t she? Made damn sure I can’t hear anything but the fucking scream that guts me from the inside out, the reason why I’m afraid of the dark now.

  “Uncle Milo?”

  I flinch and open my eyes.

  Addie Rose.

  Air rushes into my lungs, and I wheeze out a gasp as the little girl stares at me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I lie. No reason for her to know Grave Lady is back.

  Her little nose scrunches in disbelief, but her six-year-old brain is already moving on to the next topic. “Lena is worried about you.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods, hugging her stuffed bear to her chest. “She says you’re icicling yourself again.”

  “Icicling, huh?” I can’t help
smiling. “Are you sure she didn’t say isolating?”

  Her expression is all serious warning as she drops to our shared blanket bed.

  “Are you drawing?” She reaches for my notebook, and I gently pull it out of view.

  “A little bit. Ready for bed?”

  Her gaze darts toward the open doorway and the black hole of the basement beyond. I could lie again and promise Grave Lady won’t stalk those shadows tonight. It wouldn’t even be the first lie I’ve told today to protect this little girl.

  We all have our reasons for being here. Mine is a story best left forgotten. God knows my days are spent trying. But my reason for surviving now is a better one. At age twenty-four I wasn’t ready to become a father, but that’s what happened when a tiny blonde pixie with two perfect braids showed up at 723 Maple Avenue. She’d been abandoned, as far as any of us could tell, and hung on tight to me for some reason. Maybe she reminded me of my sister from before I lost her along with everything else. Uncle Milo she calls me. Addie Rose I call her. She never gave us a last name.

  “Come here,” I say, motioning to her. She takes one last peek at the darkness and rushes to my side. I wrap her in a blanket and tuck my arm around the bundle. I’ll stay like this until she’s sleeping, keeping watch. That promise I can keep.

  “Good night, Uncle Milo.”

  “Good night, Addie Rose.”

  She closes her eyes, but mine stay open.

  Light seeps through the small slit they call a window. There are two cuts into the foundation that give just enough of a reprieve from the shadows during the day. I blink awake, and gasp at the face two inches from mine. It has a cherub smile though, not the dark, angry abyss of my nightmares.

  “Morning, Uncle Milo,” Addie Rose chirps. “It’s going to be a beautiful day!”

  “Is that so?” I throw an arm over my face, still exhausted from staying awake most of the night. I’ve become a vampire since the Grave Lady’s return. Sleep during the day, high alert at night. Exhausted always.

  “I don’t like those,” Addie Rose says, her bright tone shifting. She traces the track marks on my arm, and I pull in a deep breath.

  “From when I was sick,” I tell her.

  “Your arm must have been very sick. Is that why you drew so many pictures on them?”

  I smile while her little fingers move over my tattoos. “No. I just like drawing.”

  “I know. You draw her.”

  Large baby eyes grow round as she whispers the truth I thought I kept hidden.

  “How do you know that?”

  Her gaze fixes on my notebook. “I looked this morning. Why do you draw her? She’s a bad lady.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “She doesn’t have a face.”

  I don’t want to think about that now. Not when the morning light is fresh and things have been going well for us. Even Roy has kept to himself lately. He won’t admit it, but Grave Lady has him on edge too.

  “Will you come upstairs today?” she asks.

  “I can’t, Addie—” Fuck! A searing pain shreds the nerves in my head.

  “Uncle Milo?”

  No, no, no. Not now.

  A blur of images spirals in, pinning me to the blankets. I hear Addie Rose calling my name, but she’s too far away to reach. I have no defense except to clutch my skull and hold on.

  Bes slinks toward me. I think her name’s Bes. Who the hell cares? I balance a cigarette between my lips, twisting toward the heap of clothes by the mattress for a lighter. Bitch lives in a dump, but whatever. I’ve seen worse. Lived in worse.

  She prowls on the mattress, trying to look sexy I guess. This chick is delusional. Plus, the damn mouth on this one. Bare breasts flapping around with whatever after-fuck conversation she thinks is required—nauseating.

  “I just want to say that your music is everything. The first time I heard you guys in Patton Pete’s Bar…” blah blah whatever. She’s T&A. Different girl, same holes. My fingers curve around the lighter in the pocket of my jeans, and I pull it to my lips. Thank god for its loud click-click that drowns her out for a few blessed seconds. I must’ve been really wasted last night to follow this one home.

  “Do you think we can exchange numbers? I’d love to—”

  “Not gonna happen. Thanks for the fuck.”

  I sling my legs to the floor and reach for my clothes.

  “But—”

  “Look, Bes.”

  “Bev.”

  “This was nothing more than a hookup. A pretty fucking lame one, to be honest. Anyway, glad you enjoyed the show.”

  I pull on my jeans, happy to avoid the waterworks messing up her face. She wasn’t good, but she had candy and most nights that’s more than enough for me.

  I gasp as air crashes into my chest. The vision fades as quickly as it came, tearing out another piece of my soul. Tears burn deep and dark inside me, my fists pressing against my eyelids until I’m blinded by red spots. Bev’s face hovers there, twisted and shattered. Another broken relic for my conscience to carry. Nausea washes over me the longer I shrink beneath her accusatory stare. Who is this woman? What happened to her after that asshole left her broken and reeling in the stench of sub-human trash? I don’t know the answer to either question. I don’t even remember this story, but I have no doubt it’s real. Because I’m Milo Marchesi and I used to be a monster.

  Chapter Two:

  Grave Lady

  Addie Rose knows about my “headaches” even though I’ve tried to shield her from them. It was easier back when she first entered my life. The once hourly occurrence had become rare by then. I’d even started to hope her presence was a sign. You’d think I would’ve been grateful, but if anything, it was guilt that occupied the empty space where the visions had been. Guilt that I wasn’t being tortured anymore. Yep, if this place has a twelve-step program, I’d love to know which stage that is in our twisted recovery process. But 723 Maple Avenue is the opposite of group therapy, with most of us keeping to ourselves both figuratively and literally—except for the little girl who shouldn’t be here. When I wasn’t wrapped in guilt, it was anger at that injustice.

  I shouldn’t have worried. Now they’ve returned, piercing with a vengeance that mirrors the early days in this basement when the torment was all I knew. But is the guilt gone at least? Of course not. I could laugh at the irony, and sometimes, in the deepest throngs of my mental prison, I do.

  Lena’s gentle smile waits for me when I open my eyes after my latest, one that struck shortly after Bev. Did I really rob that man at knife-point and leave him bleeding on the sidewalk? The woman I don’t remember but that’s not unusual as my brain scrapes these old boils for fresh blood. I swear they’ve grown more intense too. Sometimes the physical pain lingers for days. The mental pain? That never goes away—that’s the point.

  This one will be bad.

  I clutch my stomach, grateful for the bin Lena shoves to my side. I cough out stomach acid, gagging with each retch. Lena’s look of pity only makes it worse. She doesn’t know the source of my illness just like I don’t know hers, and her compassion is why she won’t be here for long. We all knew the second she showed up, she’d be a short-timer.

  “This was a bad one, huh?”

  I force a nod before lunging for the bin again. Nothing comes out this time, just dry heaves while her hand rubs my back. Finally my stomach relents and allows me to drop to the blankets.

  I close my eyes again, unable to look at her. She shouldn’t be here with me. No one should. That’s also the point.

  “Where’s Addie Rose?” My voice is hoarse, shredded like the inside of my throat.

  “She’s in my room.”

  I nod, grateful. I always hate for her to see me like this. “Thanks, Lena. I’m okay now.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I don’t respond. There’s no point having this argument again. What could a saint like her understand anyway?

  “Fine. I will be, then.”


  The corner of her mouth lifts in a half-smile. “If you don’t want me here, just say it, Milo.”

  I do want her here, and that’s the problem. Another thing to feel guilty about. She leans close instead, eyes wide. “Addie said you’re drawing the Grave Lady again. Is that true?”

  I swallow the new wave of nausea erupting in my stomach. “I tried to hide it from her.”

  “You know you can’t hide anything from that little girl.” She grows serious. “Can I see? Are they different?”

  She already has my notebook in her hands, and I don’t bother trying to stop her. I can’t protect her anyway. Her expression at the images projects the terror I feel.

  “Still no face.”

  I shake my head.

  “What about the screams?”

  My muscles tense. “Worse, I think.”

  She closes the notebook with a shudder and leans close once more. “Have you seen her yet? Like, for real?”

  Lena wasn’t here the last time Grave Lady stalked our halls. She only knows the stories and my nightmares flung onto paper. I was hoping she’d be gone before that happened. Based on last night’s drawing trance, we’re running out of time.

  “Not yet.” I’m not lying, but everything in me says the woman is already here, waiting for the light to fade so she can release her screams. My body goes cold as my gaze flickers past Lena and into the shadows. Is she out there now, watching?

  “Maybe Addie Rose should stay with you tonight,” I say.

  Lena’s expression sinks. “Because you’re sick or because of… her.” She whispers the last word like she fears Grave Lady is spying as well. Her quick glance toward the shadows confirms it.

  “Both.”

  She bites her lip and nods. “I’ll try, but you know how she is. She loves you, Milo.”

  I swallow my guilt. “I know.”

  “You’re a good man.”

  Lies. If only she knew about Bev. About all the others and the reason I will still be here long after she’s moved on.