Secrets in Stone: The In Stone Trilogy, #1

By Rebecca A. Engel

A dead-end job. An unrequited crush. A break-in and near assault.

Life was not going too well for Joyce Manning. Given her circumstances, it wasn't surprising she was willing to accept the strange condition in the will of  a heretofore-unknown relative. Joyce would inherit a house, along with an income, provided that she lives in the property for two years. Joyce doesn't hesitate to leave Chicago for upstate New York. It's not until she's almost there that she begins to worry that the house might be a rickety shack with no lights or running water, and filled with feral cats.

It's not. In some ways, it's worse. The house is like something out of a nightmare, crawling with gargoyles and grotesques. The nearest neighbor to the isolated house, depending on who you listen to, is a spa -- or a mental asylum.

But it's not all bad. The interior of the house, thankfully, doesn't match the outside. Not one but two local men actively pursue Joyce, which is more attention than she garnered in Chicago. And not having to work for a living is a dream come true.

Things would be great, if it weren't for the odd occurrences in the house, and the changes on its outside that make Joyce wonder if her imagination is too vivid or if she's losing her mind. Will Joyce realize that when something seems too good to be true, it usually is? Because the house has a horrifying secret, and there was a special -- and sinister -- reason Joyce was lured there.

Books in The In Stone Trilogy:

Secrets in Stone, Book 1

Sorrows in Stone, Book 2

Sustained in Stone, Book 3

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca A. Engel
• Release date: Dec 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519942807

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

As Joyce Manning stepped off the elevator, thankful to leave behind the weird-looking man who had shared the ride, she could hear a phone ringing behind one of the apartment doors that lined the hallway. Although this building dated from before World War II, when construction was supposed to be solid, the walls were amazingly thin; sounds carried readily through them. Sometimes, even within her apartment, it was hard to tell if a ringing phone was hers or a neighbor's. The closer she got to her own apartment door, the stronger the sound became. As she stood struggling with the often-sticking lock, she was now certain that the persistent shrilling was coming from within.

If I hurry, it’ll stop before I get there, she reminded herself as she jiggled the key in the lock. It finally turned, and the door swung open. Joyce hurried through, giving the door a kick to close it. She raced for the phone, expecting the ringing to stop as soon as she got within touching distance.

For once that didn’t happen. She snatched it up mid-ring. Hello?

Finally! The masculine voice made no attempt to hide its exasperation. I thought you’d never get home! I’m about to pass out from hunger. I’ll be right up.

Mark—wait! Joyce drew in a breath, listening for the sound of a click that would mean she had spoken too late, or that Mark had decided to ignore her words. Mark?

What is it? He sounded grim.

I need a little time. Could you give me half an hour?

Half an hour! By that time, I’ll qualify as a poster child for malnutrition. I’m wasting away from lack of food.

Joyce laughed. Didn’t you tell me last week you wanted to drop a few pounds?

That was last week, this is now. You haven’t seen the beautiful corned beef I picked up for us – along with that rice salad you liked so much last time.

Mark, if you were to come up this minute, you’d lose your appetite. The subway got stuck between stops again. I’m absolutely dripping with—

Perspiration, Mark cut in. I know what you were about to say. Let me remind you for the ten millionth time, horses sweat. Ladies, such as yourself, perspire – or better yet, glow.

I’ll try to remember that, Joyce promised. What I need more than food at this moment is a shower. So what do you say – you’ll give me thirty minutes, won’t you?

Make it fifteen and you’ve got yourself a deal.

That’s not enough time, Joyce protested.

Fifteen minutes, or I’ll eat all the food myself. You’ll have to fend for yourself.

All right, all right, Joyce said, her tone mockingly grudging.

And if you’re not out of the shower in time to let me in, I’ll break the door down.

Won’t you be too weak from hunger to manage that? Joyce laughed and hung up.

In her bedroom, Joyce began the contortions necessary to unzip her dress. Never again, she vowed as she fought to inch the zipper down, will I buy a dress that fastens down the back. Nor, she promised herself as she stepped out of it and picked up the limp fabric gingerly, will I buy a summer dress that’s dry clean only. The dress had been on sale, but by summer’s end, the cost of having it dry-cleaned would probably be more than the dress was worth.

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the dress to a chair that served as a repository for items that needed cleaning, making a mental note to close her bedroom door before Mark came up. He was painstakingly neat about his own apartment, a twin to hers two floors below; he was forever after her to keep her apartment tidier.

Peeling off her underwear and dropping it to the floor, Joyce padded naked across the hall to the tiny bathroom. She turned on the shower. The water felt deliciously cool as she stepped into the old-fashioned claw-footed tub. Turning this way and that beneath the cool spray, splaying her fingers through her hair as the water penetrated to her scalp, it was hard to bear in mind that next winter the water coming from this shower would be about the same temperature as it was on this unseasonably warm spring day. Last winter the appalling lack of hot water had caused her to take some of the shortest showers on record – if there were a record for that sort of thing. Right now she felt she could stand beneath this cool spray for hours. Not that Mark would allow her to do that. She wouldn’t put it past him to let himself in with the key she’d given him, march in here and yank her right out of the shower because he wanted to eat.

Reaching for the shampoo, she quickly lathered and rinsed. She knew it was time to turn off the shower and get dressed. Mark was probably already on his way up. She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her streaming hair, then took another towel and carefully patted herself dry, not wanting to lose that delicious feeling of coolness that the water had produced. Joyce hung that towel up neatly, in case Mark decided to use the bathroom. She kept the other towel wrapped around her hair.

The mirror was clear; the water hadn’t been hot enough to produce any steam to cloud it. Joyce took a tissue to wipe mascara smudges from beneath her eyes. She’d been so anxious to get into the shower, she hadn’t thought to take off her eye makeup first; the result was she looked like a raccoon.

Mentally reviewing her wardrobe, trying to think of something cool and loose to put on, she stepped across the hall and into her bedroom.

Oh, my god! The words were out before Joyce could stop them, though she clasped a hand over her mouth as if trying to take them back. It was too late.

The tall, thin man ransacking her dresser drawers turned to face her. Joyce recognized him – the man from the elevator. She’d felt uneasy riding up with him because he had a gray-tinged, cadaverous face that had made her think of old horror movies. When she first saw him, she had hoped that if he were a new neighbor rather than someone visiting the building, she wouldn’t encounter him in the halls late at night.

Now, heart hammering against her chest, she inched back toward the bathroom as the man stood and stared at her, a gleam coming into his formerly dead-looking eyes. As he took a step toward her, Joyce turned and scrambled into the bathroom, slamming the door, fumbling at the keyhole beneath the knob, remembering too late there was no key for it.

A sob escaped her lips as she braced her shoulder against the door for the expected onslaught, which came a moment later. Her bare feet, damp from the shower, slid on the age-smoothed linoleum floor as she tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the door from being pushed open. Turning, she braced her back against the door. The man on the other side was too powerful for her and the opening grew wider.

Frantically, Joyce looked around the bathroom for something, anything, to use as a weapon against the intruder. Why, she thought wildly, do I use disposable razors? If only I had a straight-blade, a knife, an axe. A panicked laugh escaped her lips. She snatched her hairbrush off the sink’s edge as the man slammed against the door. The door flew open and sent her staggering across the bathroom. She grabbed the shower curtain to keep herself from falling headfirst into the tub.

Gasping with fright, Joyce turned, the back of her knees against the tub’s rim. The intruder stood in the open doorway, eyeing her insolently, a slow, nasty smile crossing his face, revealing crooked yellowed teeth.

The man took one step forward, then two. He was almost upon her in the small space. Joyce flung the hairbrush at him with all her might, wishing it would somehow, magically, turn into a knife.

The brush hit him in the chest. He swatted it away like a pesky fly, his expression turning mean. A long arm reached out, grabbed her upper arm, jerked her to him, and shook her as if she were a rag doll. Her head snapped, and the towel wrapped around it fell off behind her.

He dragged her from the room by her arm. Joyce resisted, pulling against him, clawing at him, her toes trying to dig into the too-smooth floor. An animal-like growl she was scarcely aware of came from her throat as she struggled against him.

Stop it, the man muttered, then he struck her across the face. Stars exploded before Joyce’s eyes as pain washed over her. She was half-shoved, half-thrown across her bed.

The man loomed over her, his yellowed smile returning as he fumbled at his zipper. His intent brought Joyce out of her dazed state. She drew her legs up, and with both feet kicked at his groin, wishing she had on stiletto heels instead of being barefoot.

He put his arm up and blocked her intended target, though her kick did send him off balance. As he listed to the side, Joyce scrambled off the bed. She raced through the bedroom door, intent on getting to her front door.

Her head jerked back as he caught her by the hair before she was halfway there. Like a caveman, grunting and muttering, he dragged her back toward the bedroom by her hair. As he pulled her through the doorway, she grabbed the doorframe and held on.

He jerked at her hair so forcefully, her scalp went white-hot with pain. He peeled her fingers away from the doorframe and threw her roughly on the bed.

She heard the rasp of his zipper, then he was heavy upon her. She breathed in foulness as his face came close to hers. Rubbery lips pressed against her own. The thought of those yellowed teeth made her want to gag, and when his thick tongue thrust into her mouth, she did gag, then bit down on the flesh, hard.

The man yowled in outrage, raised himself up, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. He looked at his hand, and his expression turned meaner. I’m bleeding, you little bitch, he growled. I’ll fix you. His hands fastened around her throat.

Joyce pulled at the squeezing fingers, but it was as if they were made of steel. Redness edged in black filled her vision; her head was getting lighter and lighter. An ocean-like roaring filled her ears. She could no longer make her fingers do what she wanted them to do – claw, pull, somehow stop the man.

Then he was gone. There was a crash, a scuffle she barely paid attention to as she filled her aching lungs with air. Dazedly, she pushed herself up on an elbow, saw the intruder sprawled stomach down on the floor, with Mark kneeling on his back, holding the man’s arms in a twisting grip. Mark turned toward her, his expression grim. Call the cops, will you?

Joyce scrambled from the bed and went to the phone in the living room. She punched in the emergency number, hoarsely barked her address and the need for help. An impersonal voice promised a quick response. She staggered back to the bedroom. Mark, how will I ever thank you? Her voice was raspy, her throat tender and swollen.

Thank me by putting some clothes on. His eyes traveled the length of her nude body; Joyce gave a self-conscious start. You’re enough to give even me some ideas.

CHAPTER TWO

Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?

Joyce brought a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight as she looked up at Mark, feeling a twist of pain in her heart as she took in his handsome face. I’m sure.

Would you be this sure if— he hesitated for a brief moment, if that hadn’t happened?

I know you’re trying to be tactful, Joyce tried for a grin and almost succeeded. You don’t have to be. You can ask me if the fact I was almost raped has anything to do with my leaving.

Well, does it?

Joyce shrugged. Maybe. Then again, maybe not. Look, Mark, there’s nothing for me in Chicago. My job’s a dead end, and there’s no one to keep me here... Her voice trailed off as she glanced away. Truer words were never spoken, but she didn’t want to make Mark feel guilty over them.

It wasn’t Mark’s fault, after all, that she had envisioned an entirely different kind of relationship with him when she moved into his building a year ago. The tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man, with the kind of good looks usually reserved for TV detectives, had first helped her with her boxes, then invited her to his apartment for a drink. Joyce had half-hoped, half-feared, he’d make a move on her that night. When it didn’t happen, she figured it was because she looked like such a wreck after the move.

When Mark Hudson had dropped by the next night with a bag of cold cuts and deli salads, Joyce had been sure he was interested in her. Again, the expected pass failed to materialize. After he’d left, Joyce decided he was both handsome and a gentleman; her heart fluttered wildly whenever she thought of him, which was often.

Two nights later, while sharing a plate of baklava he’d bought at a nearby bakery, Mark said casually, By the way, I’m gay. The look in his eyes told Joyce he knew how she was beginning to feel about him.

Joyce had barely been able to stop herself from choking on the pastry. After a moment, she managed to say, I guess that means I should cancel the wedding plans. She had meant to sound light-hearted, amusing, sophisticated; instead, she had sounded dejected.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve been tested. I’m not HIV positive, I don’t have AIDS, and I don’t intend to catch it. I’m careful. Very careful.

While Joyce’s dream of a romance with Mark was shattered by his announcement, their friendship flourished. They continued to share deli suppers several times a week. Mark wasn’t adverse to going out with her socially, to movies, plays, or walks around the city. Joyce told herself to be content with having the best-looking escort wherever they went; never mind that the chances for a good-night kiss, let alone happily ever after, were about as remote as the chance for world peace.

Joyce had thought she had accepted the fact she’d never be romantically involved with Mark, until the night he saved her from the rapist. Mark wasn’t to blame because she had placed an erroneous interpretation on his remark about her body that night. He had meant to lighten the situation. She had taken it to mean that, finally, he was becoming interested in her as more than a friend.

Of course, it hadn’t helped the situation any when he suggested she stay with him until she got over her fear of being alone in her apartment. It wasn’t until later she understood that his invitation had been prompted by his feeling of guilt that the near-assault was his fault, not from some newly acknowledged attraction to her. Mark had been there when the police took Joyce’s account of the break in. He heard her admit that in her haste to answer Mark’s phone call, she had failed to lock the door behind her, and that was how the man got in. Perhaps she should have known when Mark volunteered to sleep on the couch so she could take his bed that he didn’t have anything romantic in mind. That first night, when she screamed in her sleep, Mark had joined her in his wide bed, and held her until she slept again. The next night, when she suggested he join her in the bed rather than wreck his back on the couch, he had agreed readily enough. They had gone to sleep on separate edges of the bed. In the morning she awoke snuggled against him, an arm around his waist. Mark had kissed her forehead sleepily, and patted her bottom as he told her she had to scoot if she wanted to use the bathroom first. She had pranced to that room feeling elated.

The feeling didn’t last, though, for that night, over a supper of deli cold cuts, Mark suggested they exchange apartments, either temporarily or permanently, thus dashing Joyce’s hopes that their cohabitation might become permanent.

Joyce had hidden her disappointment and told Mark not to be silly; she would move back into her own apartment.

And she did, though it scared her half to death to be there. If Mark wanted her back there, that’s where she would be. It could mean, after all, that he was frightened by the change in his feelings for her. If giving him a little breathing space would allow their relationship to change into something more than friendship, then she’d gladly face her fears.

It had seemed to work, for Mark spent every evening with her. He offered to stay on her couch if she wanted him nearby. Joyce declined. The couch wasn’t where she wanted him. It would have to be his own idea to come into her bed. She could wait.

Ten days after the break-in, Mark begged off from their evening together. He had to work late, he told her over the phone; he’d see her the next night.

In an odd way that felt almost disloyal, it was nice to have an evening alone. Joyce showered and shampooed her hair – very quickly. She hadn’t felt easy in the shower since that day, unless Mark happened to be in the apartment with her. She tried a new facial she had bought before the incident, crawled into bed early, and slept, for the first time since the break-in, without nightmares.

Up early the next morning, she decided to forego a homemade breakfast and instead eat out. The elevator stopped on Mark’s floor. She grinned when she saw him standing before the slowly opening doors. Her grin faded when she saw his companion, a blandly handsome blond man in an immaculate navy blue suit. Mark and the man acted as if they didn’t know each other, did not stand close to each other in the elevator, and went in different directions once outside the building without a backward glance. But Joyce knew. She knew the man had spent the night in Mark’s apartment, that they had been lovers. It didn’t matter if theirs was a one-night stand or an on-going relationship; the truth of the matter was Mark was gay; he wasn’t about to change, not for her, not for anyone. Asking her to stay with him had been the act of a friend; thinking he was becoming interested in her had been her imagination, nothing more. She’d been a fool to think otherwise. She hoped Mark had been as careful as he’d claimed he was.

The letter had been waiting for her that night when she got home. When she followed up and found out what it was all about, it seemed like a godsend. She was embarrassed to be around Mark now, for she was sure he’d been perceptive enough to know what she had imagined might happen between them.

If you’re going to go through with this, I wish you’d at least let me lend you the money to fly. Mark broke into her thoughts as they walked down the street together, Mark carrying her suitcase.

Joyce shook her head. The bus is good enough for me, she told him. Besides, if I did fly, I’d still have to take a bus to get to Shelby. Remember? It’s in the middle of nowhere. Joyce grinned as she said that. It was Mark’s favorite phrase, used frequently in his arguments against her plans.

Let’s hope they at least have landlines out there in the middle of nowhere, Mark said. I’ll bet cell phones don’t work there at all, not that I’ve been able to convince you to get one.

I never saw the need. I was on the phone all day at work. I never wanted to be tied to a phone when I wasn’t at work, too.

Make sure you at least have a landline out there in nowhere, so you can call me if you need me.

Like if there’s another rapist? Joyce asked jauntily, with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Like if you discover you’ve made a mistake and want to come back. Mark’s expression was serious. You don’t have to stay there. You can always come back, you know.

What? And lose my inheritance? Surely you jest.

Not at all. If it isn’t what you expect, if you don’t like it there, come back. You can always stay with me again until you get yourself set up.

Stay with you? What if you’re in Paris by then? Mark was due to be transferred to the Paris branch of the architectural firm that employed him.

Then you can come there. Don’t laugh. I’m serious. There’s something fishy about this whole situation. I wish I could take some time off to come with you so I could see for myself what it’s like there.

I’ll be fine, Mark, really—unless I don’t get a move on right this minute and miss my bus. She increased her pace. Mark kept up with her.

We could have taken a taxi down to the bus depot, you know, he reminded her.

I’m going to be on that bus for the better part of twenty-four hours. I want to walk now, while I can.

That’s because you’re not the one carrying your suitcase.

Hand it over, Mark. I know it’s not that heavy. I can handle it.

I was kidding. He sidestepped as Joyce reached for the bag, switching it so it was on the opposite side from her. As they covered the last block before the bus depot, they went over the arrangements once more. Her things, mostly clothing, were boxed and sitting in Mark’s living room. Once she arrived in Shelby and ascertained that all was well, she would call Mark; he would have them shipped to her. That plan had been instigated at Mark’s insistence. Joyce would have preferred to take everything with her right now, cut her ties to Chicago completely. Mark had preached caution and convinced her otherwise.

They entered the depot. Joyce purchased her ticket and learned the bus was already boarding. They pushed their way through the crowds, into the terminal. Mark turned over the suitcase to the man loading the compartment underneath the bus.

I guess this is it, Mark said as he turned to Joyce. She saw that his expression was lugubrious.

Hey, this isn’t goodbye forever, she said, forcing a cheerfulness she didn’t entirely feel. I won’t be able to come to see you. That doesn’t mean you can’t come to see me.

I will if I don’t get transferred to Paris.

Even if you do, we’ll keep in touch, Joyce promised. Haven’t you always bragged to me that your cell phone lets you call anywhere in the world? I can get one like that for myself. Since I won’t be on the phone all day at work anymore, I won’t mind having a cell now. We can talk as much as we ever did. It wasn’t unusual for them to go out to eat, talking all the while, go home to their separate apartments, and continue talking on the phone for another hour or more.

A crackling announcement urged final boarding of her bus. I guess that means me. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Mark’s cheek. For a moment, his arms went around her and held her tightly. Joyce fought back a sob at what might have been, what should have been. Quickly she stepped away from him, turned and hurried up the steep bus steps.

The door of the bus hissed behind her, and as she made her way down the narrow aisle, the bus began to pull slowly out of its berth. The bus was almost empty; Joyce flung herself into a window seat so she could wave good-bye to Mark. He was visible for a moment before the bus pulled out onto the street.

There was a feeling of tightness in her throat as the bus drove into the late afternoon sunshine; it came from the realization that one chapter of her life was over. She suppressed an urge to run to the driver and demand he let her off the bus.

Joyce half-stood and looked around. There were at most a half-dozen other passengers. Were any of them also going to Shelby? It seemed doubtful, Shelby being only one of the many stops the bus would make en route on its journey eastward. Perhaps they’d pick up some more passengers along the way.

The promise of more passengers down the line didn’t help Joyce now. What she needed was a crowded bus, with babies screaming and a nosy old lady sitting next to her to take her mind off the memory of Mark standing alone in the depot, to make her forget how lonely she felt at this moment.

If she felt lonely now, how was she going to feel over the next two years, stuck in Shelby where she didn’t know a soul?

Grabbing her purse, Joyce rummaged through it, looking for something to keep her occupied. Darn, she’d meant to get to the station early enough to pick up a paperback or some magazines, but the timing had been too tight. Leaving her purse on the seat, she made her way toward the front of the bus, intending to ask the driver when the first stop was. A huge sign above the bus’s windshield informed her that the driver was not allowed to talk to passengers when he was driving. She went back to her seat, surreptitiously studying the handful of other passengers as she went. They were a motley-looking bunch, a couple of middle-aged men in workmen’s clothes, a spinsterish-looking lady who glanced up from her crocheting to give Joyce a sour look as she went by, a