The Ghost of Morley Manor is 99¢.
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When Alice Worthington’s father dies, he leaves Morley Manor and all his debt to her and her younger brother. Desperate to find a way to pay the creditors, Alice performs a séance to contact the spirit of the last man to have seen the jewels rumored to be hidden within her home.
Sir Nicholas, a two-hundred-year-old roguish ghost, strikes a bargain with Alice. Find his earthly remains and bury them in consecrated ground. Only then will he reveal the location of the hidden jewels. Alice agrees not knowing when the time comes, she must decide between saving her home or saving the soul of the charming ghost who haunts Morley Manor.
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Excerpt:
As my eyelids drifted down, I heard a noise.
At first, I disregarded it. There were often noises within Morley Manor that seemed unexplainable. I usually surmised the noises came from the wind, rattling the casements, or perhaps mice scurrying about, seeking a spare bit of crumb.
But, when the noise repeated itself, I had the distinct impression that I was not alone.
Those were footsteps. Footsteps nearing my bed…
It’s nothing, I chastised myself, gripping the coverlet. The wind… merely the wind.
But this wind had a solid cadence and the second thought that pervaded my sleep fogged brain was perhaps Morley Manor had an intruder. It was possible someone might have heard of our misfortune and had come to take advantage. To steal anything of value that might remain in our destitute house.
I reached for the table beside my bed, searching blindly for anything I might obtain as a weapon. I touched the cold leather binding of a book, a porcelain miniature figurine, and a candle encased in its brass holder. I wrapped my fingers around the candlestick, gripping it tightly as I peeked over the coverlets.
My room was empty.
I pushed the coverlets aside and sat up fully to better view my chambers in the dim light of the dying fire. The heat from the blaze was gone. I noticed my breath clouding before my face. I sat there quite a while, listening with bated breath for the noises I had previously heard, but there were none.
“I must have been dreaming,” I muttered aloud.
“Was I among those dreams, my sweet?” A voice spoke loudly from my left. My heart drummed into my throat, and I jerked to face my intruder.
A man dressed in 15th century garb of shirt, doublet and hose sat stretched in the chair beside my bed with his booted feet propped on another table. He flicked idly at the tassel on his hat.
“At one time, I might have enjoyed partaking of that delectable… Good God! Can you hear me?”
He had lifted his head when I made a small gurgling sound in the back of my throat. At the sight of me staring at him, he straightened, his feet dropping through the table and onto the floor.
Through the table…
A scream tore into the night, a high-pitched, frightening sound that sent shivers coursing down my spine. I scrambled back against the headboard of my bed, gripping my candlestick and gasping for breath. As I struggled to breathe, I realized those were my chilling screams.
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