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against the right wall. The polished mahogany bureau held the modern touch of the entertainment center within it. The television was off. The French doors to the balcony and the wraparound porch were ajar because it was such a nice day and the breeze was fresh and clean, causing the white draperies to stir and dance. That was natural, and she was accustomed to the smell and feel of fresh air. She loved it, and she wasn’t at all fond of the air-conditioning that ran through the summer months. No, the room itself was just as it always was.
    She stood near the open French doors, jaw agape, and stared.
    Because she was alone in the room, yet something else was moving. Something that drifted from the bed. Something in a hazy form, something cold, something that felt threatening.
    It approached Clara. She felt something touch her face, almost like the stroke of fingers against her cheek. Very cold fingers. Dead fingers. She thought she heard a whispering. Scratchy, against her ear. Something that pleaded…or threatened.
    Her hands were frozen in a vise around her broom handle. Her body felt as if it had jelled into ice. Fear raced up and down her spine.
    The cold…wrapped around her. Tightly. More and more tightly.
    At last, her jaw snapped shut. She broke the sensation of terror. She screamed, not a bloodcurdling sound, but one that barely held a gasp of air.
    Then she found life, and ran.
    Out to the second floor landing; there was no one there. Down the flight of stairs to the grand foyer, where again, the house was empty. She headed toward the second doorway to the right of the sweeping stairway. Surely, for the love of God, someone would be in the house office—Penny, a tiny bastion against anyone evil, but someone, at the least.
    Clara breathed a sigh of relief. Matt was there. Bursting out the doorway before she could reach it. He was in his work uniform, but he hadn’t headed out for the station yet; it was still very early. Thank God.
    He hurried toward her, as if he had heard her cry—being Matt, of course, he had heard it!—and had been preparing to rush to her rescue. Except that she had fled the room upstairs with greater speed than a greyhound. And so she was here, spurting into his arms.
    â€œClara! What is it?”
    She was fifty-five. Twenty years older than Matt, at least. But he was Matt; solid as a rock. A tall man in his prime with a way about him that commanded respect which in turn offered her a feeling of security that allowed her to speak when her mouth was still all but completely contorted.
    â€œI—I—quit!” she gasped out.
    â€œClara, what on earth?” he asked kindly, holding her at something of a distance from himself and searching out her eyes.
    â€œLet me tell you, that bride was not crazy. There’s a ghost in that room!”
    â€œOh, Clara, please. We both know the silly stories about this place! We’ve both heard them since we were little kids. But come on, we’ve also worked in this house, both of us, for years and years. Clara, I feel like a broken record here, but believe me—ghosts don’t really exist. People want them to exist sometimes. Penny is dying to have a few authentic ghosts to give the place a greater reputation. Seems like being an historical masterpiece doesn’t always cut it these days.” He smiled, smoothing back her graying hair.
    â€œThere’s a ghost in the Lee room, and it just touched me.” Clara planted her hands on her hips. “How long have you known me? Forever? Haven’t I always agreed with you, saying that it was just silly airheads who felt they had to make up ghost stories? But you have to believe me—there’s something in that room. It threatened me. Matt, it wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t a memory of ghost tales told over and over. It was real. I could see it. Come up and see for yourself!”
    Matt sighed deeply. Still, there was concern for her