The Haunting – Chapter 3
Winter 1891
The brownstone creaked and groaned during the winter cold. Such things were natural in an old house, plus it was in need of repairs, so it did not bother him too much. Castle spent most nights curled up in bed, gazing longingly at the portrait of the long lost Katherine Beckett. He had learned a lot about her over the course of his research. She had been extraordinary. She had excelled at schooling, and probably could have easily broken barriers and done whatever she wanted. It was a little insane, but he almost felt like he was falling in love with a long forgotten memory.
Part of him felt like she was still in the house. It was the only way he could explain how things would go missing, or mysteriously shift positions on the desktop or kitchen bench. It was nothing sinister, but it was enough to make him wonder. And if it was her, he was glad. In a strange, bizarre way, the idea that she was still there was oddly comforting.
It was on a cold January night that his fanciful musings proved to have some truth to them. He was hunched over a file on records he had obtained through a contact at the district attorney's office, when a sudden gust of chilly wind howled through the room. Gooseflesh materialized along his arms and legs, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The candles flickered and then went out, as if a fist had clenched around the burning wicks, snuffing them out.
All the windows were closed. And the front door was locked and bolted. There was no logical source for the mysterious gust of wind. Swallowing nervously, Castle squinted in the sudden darkness. The only light came from the moonlight, which filtered through the parted curtains. Swiveling around in his chair, Castle cautiously stood up. But halfway through the motion of standing, he was stopped. Something unseen was pushing on his chest, urging him back into the chair. Feeling his heart rate pick up, Castle complied, hoping it was just his imaginings.
But then he felt the soft phantom caress of a hand along his shoulder and his chair twirled around. He could have sworn he heard a soft giggle, but his heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears that it was drowning out all other sounds. Gripping the arms of the chair, Castle closed his eyes and prayed for the nightmare to end. The chair stopped with a sudden jerk, and he waited several moments until he cracked open one eye.
To his surprise, all the candles were lit, as if they had never gone out. He pursed his lips and gazed down at the file he had had open on the desk. Lying on top of the now closed file was his favorite fountain pen, the one that had gone missing. Castle picked it up and gasped when he discovered something had been written on the folder cover. Elegant script, evidence of a well schooled individual, stared back at him.
It read: Stop.
XXX
Castle kept the hauntings—he could not think of any other way to describe them—to himself, fearing what others would think. After that night, he had decided to take a break from his research. His friends—what little he had—noticed his almost reclusive behavior, and had encouraged him to be more outgoing and social. He needed to do something normal. During a Christmas party last month, some mutual friends had introduced him to a woman, Miss Gina Cowell, daughter of a shipping magnate, hoping that a new relationship could help pull him out of his melancholy.
So, to that end, two nights after the incident in the parlor, Richard Castle stood before the vanity mirror in the master bedroom, dressed to impress, in his best evening jacket and ascot, hair perfectly groomed. He was going to call upon Miss Cowell and to put some space between him and the case of the young Katherine Beckett.
