The Chosen

“Hey, sorry.” He passed it off with a shrug. “We’re both adults. I just thought you might want to—”

“Well, I don’t. I’m tired, and we’ve both got a big few weeks ahead of us.”

“All the more reason for us to relax, have a good time, right?”

“Wrong, Kyle.” Did he actually believe she would strip right in front of him? Good-looking men had a tendency to expect women to slaver at their feet. Nice try, pal, she thought. She couldn’t help but notice, though, Kyle’s attractive build. He was trim yet well muscled, with sturdy arms and a developed chest. Some sort of thin silver chain glittered about his neck.

“No biggie.” He flung his shirt over his shoulder. Then he cast her a last, snide smile. “Maybe some other time…when you’ve got a swimsuit.”

“Yeah, Kyle. Maybe.” Then again, maybe not.

“See you in the morning.” He walked out and turned down the hall. Vera frowned after him. Dan B.’s right.

But just a second later, Kyle quickly reappeared in the door way, his chest flexed as he grinned in at her. “Oh, and I just wanted to let you know, Vera. Don’t let the stories get to you.”

“Stories?”

“Yeah. The Inn’s haunted.”

Then he disappeared again. Vera wanted to laugh. Did he think he could freak her out? Perhaps he wanted to scare her for snubbing his skinny-dipping plans. What an idiot, she dismissed.

She smiled at her amusement. The Inn’s haunted. Yet for some reason she remained standing there, looking down the long straight body of the pool. The merged light floated languidly atop the water. Then she heard—

What was that?

Her smile faded. She thinned her eyes toward the very end of the pool, the unlit area. She heard a quick rush, then an even quicker dripping sound, then—

A door?

No, it was ridiculous. It must be her imagination.

Vera thought, for a moment, that she’d heard someone climbing out of the dark end of the pool.

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER ELEVEN}

His visions churned. His mind felt caught on the grapnel of a convulsive tilting nightmare.

He was watching himself…

But it was a nightmare, wasn’t it? He lay awake on the bed, the sunlight like a bar of white pain across his eyes.

A nightmare, he thought. Yeah. Hastily as it seemed, the conclusion helped him feel safe again.

It was a nightmare.

“Jesus Christ,” Paul Kirby muttered. The clock’s digital dial read 5:23 p.m. He’d slept the entire day away, which wasn’t like him at all. He was a writer, sure, and generally writers slept late. But… Five in the evening? he questioned himself. Must have picked up the flu or something.