Bound by Blood

Chapter 4

The sound of breaking glass jolted me from sleep. I lay still in the silent dark, heart racing, muscles locked in a paralysis of fright.

As the seconds ticked past and no other noise disturbed the night, I began to wonder if the sound had been real or merely a fragment of a dream. Then another noise—the tinkle of glass shards being swept aside and crunched underfoot, quiet but undeniably real—drifted up from the floor below.

I sat up, mouth dry with fear, and fumbled for my phone on the bedside table. I found it and pressed the button to wake it up, intending to call 911.

Nothing happened.

Fucking hell. Of all the nights to forget to plug the damned thing in. Downstairs, I heard some small object hit the floor, and a muffled curse.

The smart thing to do would be to get away, to escape and call 911 from a safe distance. Or lock myself in my room and stay quiet until the coast was clear. Another bump and scrape came from below, followed by the sound of something delicate breaking.

It was stupid and foolish, but I couldn't abandon Uncle's collection to some careless thug. Anger sparked in me, chasing off a little of the fear, and I grabbed the walking stick from beside the bed and crept to the door.

I pushed it open a crack and peered out. The hallway and upper landing were dark, but I could only see a slice of the lower floor through the opening above the stairs. I slid forward, my bare feet noiseless on the cold, old wood floor, ears straining for any further sound from below.

At the top of the second-floor landing, I crouched and leaned forward, more of the room below sliding into view. It was lit dimly by the faux-gas wall sconces, turned down to their lowest level, barely brighter than a candle. A shadow loomed suddenly across the floor, and I shrank back, cold sweat prickling over my chest and back. There was silence followed by the sound of soft shuffling and the quiet clack of drawers sliding open and shut. The intruder was going through the old vanity beneath the shelves of dolls, looking for jewelry, trinkets, cash, or who-knows-what.

I leaned forward again, walking stick clutched tightly in my hands. A figure came into view and leaned over the display case housing a collection of dead-men's watches. It was clearly male, tall and broad, clothed in a black jacket, ski mask, and gloves. Heavy rubber-soled combat boots and dark cargo pants completed the pro B&E look nicely.

A faint sound of scraping proceeded the click of a lock, and the top of the display case lifted with a quiet creak. The figure leaned over the velvet cloth, but appeared uninterested in the valuable antique timepieces, instead running his gloved hands along the inside of the case as though checking for secret compartments. Not finding any, he straightened and turned, surveying the room.

He took a few steps and paused at the base of the stairs. I froze as his eyes swept briefly upward, afraid to even breathe lest some slight movement draw his eye. The darkness on the landing must have hidden me, as he turned and instead continued down the hall to the back rooms.

This was my chance, I realized—to run, get out, go for help. I started down the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaky spots, trying to hear over the rush of blood in my ears. I paused at the bottom. The hallway was parallel to the last flight of stairs. If the intruder was facing my way, he'd see me, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to get the front door open before he chased me down.

More faint scraping sounds came from the hallway, followed by the rattle of a doorknob and the creak of hinges. He'd picked the lock to the storeroom, I realized, and gone inside.

I darted around the corner at the bottom of the stairs and made for the door. As quietly as possible, I slid back the chain and the bolt. My hand was on the knob when a resounding crash followed by a startled shout made me spin about, heart in my throat. The burglar flew out of the open doorway of the storage room and hit the opposite wall. A number of small objects quickly followed, pelting him as if launched from a ball cannon. I groaned internally. Pete had terrible timing.

The man scrambled to his feet, took two lurching steps in my direction, and froze. Our eyes locked, and then with an angry cry he sprinted towards me, arms outstretched. I lifted the walking stick and swung it at his head, but he caught it easily and wrenched it from my grasp. One gloved hand closed over my throat while the other fumbled for something at his belt before drawing out a serrated combat knife.

Wonderful. At least we weren't standing over one of the soul-trapping rugs; I loved my uncle's museum, but I had no desire to become a part of the displays. He raised the knife and I raised a hand in ineffectual defense.

Before he could bring down the blade, something struck his hand and he dropped the weapon with a yelp. He turned, and the next instant something heavy smashed into him, sending him into me, and both of us crashing through the front door. For a moment we both lay stunned, and I watched as Pete's bowling ball rolled in a slow arc beside my head. Then the man rolled off me and scrambled to his feet.

For a moment he froze, as though weighing whether to flee or finish me off, but Pete wasn't done. A cloud of small objects—the collections of silver spoons, I realized with some dismay, and a bunch of antique keys—shot out the door like tiny missiles, bouncing off the man's head and back. Other loose objects followed—a few of the watches, a pair of ballet slippers, and a cricket ball among them. Daunted by the paranormal assault, the man turned and fled down the steps and away into the night.

Getting shakily to my feet, I ducked as more objects continued to fly out the door. I stepped inside and shut it after me, sliding the chain into place. The frame was split where it had busted open, so the bolt and lock were useless.

"Pete, stop!" I shouted. "He's gone!"

A few stray objects continued to circle in the air near the ceiling, and the curtains moved as if blown about by a breeze, though the air was still. I'd never seen Pete this angry—or, I considered, possibly frightened. His displays were generally lighthearted, as far as poltergeists went. This was on a different scale altogether. He'd attacked someone—admittedly, with good cause—but that wasn't something I could ignore. Not to mention the damage he might have done to any artifacts that weren't in cases or bolted down.

"Pete, please. He's gone now. You can stop."

Abruptly the floating objects dropped to the floor and the curtains ceased moving.

"Thank God." I sagged against the ruined door, adrenaline still rushing through my veins. I needed to get upstairs, plug my phone in, call the police and—my eyes roamed over the destruction littering the room—eventually the insurance company. Everything would have to be inventoried, damaged objects compared with their catalogued conditions. It was going to be a nightmare.

"What the hell was he after?" I wondered aloud. A glint of light caught my eye, and I realized one object still hovered in the air, at about the height it would be if carried in the hand of a tall man. The sphere.

It rotated slowly, the intricate engravings catching the light as it moved so that they seemed almost alive, squirming over the surface like thin, contorted worms.

"Pete?" I said, uncertain. "Put that down."

The sphere continued to levitate, bobbing up and down slightly as it moved towards me, as though carried in an invisible hand. It occurred to me, a bit belatedly, that Pete was trying to tell me something important.

"Is that it?" I asked aloud. "He wanted the sphere?"

It made sense, sort of. My uncle sent me a strange artifact in the mail, and within the span of twenty-four hours the house had been broken into twice, when we'd never had to worry about crime before. It could have been a coincidence, but somehow I didn't think it was.

"Alright, Pete. I get it," I said, hands raised in a placating gesture. "You can put it down now. I'll keep it safe—I promise."

The sphere bobbed low before swooping into a graceful arc as though launched by an underhand toss. Without thinking, I reached out and caught it in my bare hands.