Which, in his case, was generally an excuse to find a nice quiet place for a quickie, but still, it might have some scientific merit, too.
The scratching noise happened again, and Madeline could swear a door moved in the light from her flashlight, so she headed that way to investigate. At the last second, before entering the room, she decided to turn off her flashlight. She had to stand there a few seconds, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the minimal light coming in from the windows, but it was worth it not to scare a possible skunk. Scare a skunk and you learn pretty damn quick you don’t want to do it twice in one lifetime.
Inside the room, she realized it was one of the previous bedrooms, back when this place was a functional home. Not that there was anything like a mattress left after who knows how much time had passed, but there were still some pretty impressive chunks of wood that likely once represented a canopy bed. Scraps of fabric clung precariously to the window. Formerly curtains, they seemed to blow in an unseen and unfelt breeze.
Which was weird. This room still had glass in the window frame. No breeze should be able to penetrate the barrier, but it wasn’t proof of the paranormal. She’d realized quite some time ago that they weren’t great at insulation in the olden days, so drafts themselves weren’t cause for alarm or even excitement.
Except she couldn’t feel the draft. And instead of being chilled—a common reality in a drafty old house, but not proof of the afterlife as some might think—the room felt warm.
Comfortably so. The whole house was kind of chilly, worse with the storm rolling through, but this room felt downright cozy. Still smelled like urine and god knew what else, but it looked like something out of a horror flick and felt as comfortable as her apartment.
Weird.
The hairs on her arms raised again, but still not in fear. She was excited. She couldn’t decide exactly why, but then she realized she couldn’t smell the urine mildew mix anymore.
No, she smelled cookies. Like, chocolate chip cookies baking in an oven. That delicious scent that hinted at future pleasures and warm fuzzies. Madeline shook her head. She was in an abandoned house, watching white scraps of former curtains billow in an unseen breeze near the ruins of a great bed, yet she could smell cookies?
She opened her mouth to call out to the others—to tell them to come check this out—but before she could speak, she blinked.
One moment, a barely lit, dark and dismal room, then with a blink, it all changed. She had a split second thought that the lightning outside caused the brightness, but the illumination stayed. The view out the window was green, so green, and the tatters of curtains were whole and lovely. The bed—she was right, it had been a bed—was standing on all four posters, covered with heavily embroidered quilts and pillows. The dingy walls were a brilliant white.
She could still smell the cookies, though, which almost distracted her from the glory of the room. The scent made her hungry in an odd way. In an almost sexual way. Although it was all so damn bizarre, she didn’t scream or call for the others. No, she reached for the carved and polished wood at the foot of the bed. She figured that she wouldn’t be able to feel it. That it wasn’t real and she was just hallucinating it or something. But her palm landed on the sleek and cool feel of glossy mahogany.
“You came back.” The voice was polished stones in a tumbler crashing against one another. All at once, it was clearly a lovely sound, but rough and untamed at the same time. Since she’d proved she could touch the things in this dream, she’d settled on it officially being that—a dream rather than reality. Clearly, she’d dozed off in the haunted house or maybe not ever gone in the first place.
Which made the man standing near the doorway not a ghost or otherworldly entity, but a dream man and as fictional as the glorious bed behind her. She could stare at dream men as long as she liked without it being socially awkward, so she looked her fill. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist—go, my imagination!—which was kind of her favorite flavor of man. White hair tumbled into his eyes, too long and very straight, but it only made the burning depths of his red eyes more compelling. He wore a Gothic, frilly man-shirt with lace at the wrists and collar and some kind of tight ass pants—which outlined his obviously well-endowed dick package in a nearly pornographic way that would make the goblin king totally jealous.