Gables and Grievances Excerpt
Chapter 1 – Saturday
The rain pounded against the bedroom window with surprising intensity for early autumn, each drop drumming an urgent rhythm that matched my paintbrush strokes. I stepped back to admire the pale blue wall I’d been working on for the past hour, using a paintbrush to cut the blue color against the white window trim, when a dark spot on the ceiling caught my eye.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I set down my paintbrush.
The spot grew larger as I watched, water collecting into a threatening bubble before a single drop broke free and splashed onto the floor.
I sighed. “Perfect.” I grabbed an empty paint bucket and positioned it under the growing leak. Another coat of paint on this bedroom wall, and it would be done. I let out another sigh, only four more rooms to go, until the painting part of this reno was finally done. Of course, now I’d have to repaint the ceiling too. Once the leaky roof was fixed that was. The renovations seriously never seemed to end.
The sound of rain drumming on the roof was getting louder, and the drips in the bucket more insistent; so much for the last coat. Probably a good idea to check the attic. With the way things have been going around here, the roof could have sprouted a leak the size of Pleasant Pond itself, and with my luck, I swear I’d end up with a body floating in it.
I headed up the creaking attic steps. Arnold, my long-haired black cat, who, by the way, considers himself the official supervisor of all things related to this house (and, let’s be honest, my life), was being particularly weird today. He usually hated the attic. Too many cobwebs, not enough sunbeams for prime napping. But lately, he’d been following me around as if I were carrying his favorite treats in my pocket. He walked directly to the far-left corner and pawed at a specific floorboard like he’d buried a year’s supply of catnip there.
“What is it, Arnold?” I asked, adjusting the baseball cap covering my hair. The rain sounded so close up here, right on top of my head. “Did you finally find your missing toy mouse? Because that would actually explain a lot about your recent mood.”
He just flicked his tail, a clear sign of impatience. “She promises to quit rearranging my napping spots if I help with her little archaeological project.” And then he resumed his frantic scratching. He meowed, and Ozzy, my little terrier, ran up the steps and joined the fray, digging enthusiastically at the spot Arnold indicated. Dirt and dust flew everywhere.
“Would you two please behave?” I pleaded, though mostly to myself. “This house is falling apart enough without your help.” I scanned the attic but couldn’t locate the leak.
Famous last words, of course. Right on cue, Ozzy’s eager paws managed to pry loose the floorboard. It popped up with a creak, revealing a small, dark space beneath.
“Arnold, you’re a bad influence on her.”
I walked over. Inside, nestled under the floor was a weathered book. I pulled it out. The words “Clara’s Recipes” were written in elegant script on the first page.
“Well, hello there,” I murmured, flipping through the brittle pages. “Looks like we’ve found ourselves a treasure.” And for a moment, I forgot about the leak.
“I found the treasure, let’s be straight.” As if on cue, the lights flickered, casting eerie shadows around the attic. Arnold’s fur stood on end as he stared intently at an empty rocking chair in the corner.
The rocking chair began to move. Just slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“Okay, I think it’s time to leave,” I muttered, trying to dismiss the movement. This house has more drafts than a brewery.
He just hissed, his eyes wide, refusing to look away from the rocker.
A shiver ran down my spine, despite the fact that I was wearing a sweater under my paint-covered overalls. A sudden cold spot enveloped me, making the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Clara, our resident ghost, was close by. And she was getting impatient.
The recipe book in my hands suddenly felt ice-cold, and the pages began flipping on their own—not gently, like a breeze might cause, but aggressively, like someone frantically searching for something specific. The book stopped at a page titled “Apple Celebration Pie for New Beginnings,” and the temperature in the attic plummeted.
“Okay, Clara,” I said aloud, my breath visible in the sudden cold. “I found your book. What else do you need?”
The lights flickered three times in rapid succession—not the gentle dim I’d gotten used to, but sharp, urgent pulses that made Arnold hiss and flatten his ears.
“She’s trying to tell you something,” Arnold said, backing toward the stairs. “And she’s getting frustrated that you’re not understanding.”
I followed Arnold down a few steps, wondering how I could receive a message from a ghost.
Séance?
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Gable’s and Grievances goes live Tuesday, Sept. 23rd!
