Page 83 of Forever Dead

He held the bat loosely at his side and checked the sitting room first. The cushions remained arranged on the couch. The television remote sat in the wooden bowl Peter insisted guests use. A log basket stood beside the hearth, still half full.

The dining room was the same. No chairs moved. No broken dishes. No abandoned bottles.

Harold frowned. Maybe Peter had sent someone without mentioning it.

Would not be the first time.

A couple from Nashville had once arrived while Harold was changing a leaking washer upstairs because Peter had forgotten Kentucky and England were on different clocks when he sent the booking message.

Harold took out his phone. No missed calls. No messages.

He put it away. “Peter, if you’ve done this again, I swear to God.”

A soft noise came from deeper in the house.

Harold stopped.

Thud.

He waited.

Another followed.

Thud.

The sound was dull and heavy. Not loud, but regular.

Harold tightened his grip on the bat. “Hello?”

Thud.

A few seconds passed before it came again.

Thud.

He moved toward the kitchen. The noise seemed to come from the rear of the farmhouse.

“Whoever’s back there, come on out.”

Another thud answered him.

Harold entered the kitchen. Morning light came through the window above the sink. Nothing had been disturbed. Mugs hung from hooks beneath the cabinet. A dish towel remained folded beside the draining board.

The rear door was closed. Harold checked it.

Locked.

That left the narrow corridor between the kitchen and back stairs. Two doors opened from it. The first led to a pantry. The second, farther along, was the laundry room Peter had fitted out for guests after converting the old mudroom.

Thud.

Harold stared at the laundry-room door.

Another impact struck from the other side.

Thud.

He raised the bat.