The Thirteenth

By Linda Niehoff

The séance that started it all…

 

Young widow Daphne Chaftin accepts an invitation as the thirteenth to a séance. Hopefully not to see her late husband. No such thing as ghosts. And she's desperate to prove it—if only for herself.

 

Maybe then she can truly bury the past.

 

But when the lights go out, Daphne's world changes forever. For better and for worse.

 

The Thirteenth is the prequel short story to the paranormal romance, A Midsummer at Rosewood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dread Moon Press
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223105831

Book preview

The Thirteenth

The Thirteenth

A Dead Edward Short Story

Linda Niehoff

Dread Moon Press

Copyright © 2023 by Linda Graziano-Niehoff

Cover design copyright © 2023 by Linda Graziano-Niehoff

Cover art copyright © Fotolit2/Depositphotos

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All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Contents

The Thirteenth

Excerpt From A Midsummer at Rosewood

About the Author

The Thirteenth

H ow very maudlin, I remarked as soon as I stepped into the room.

Great swaths of black darkened nearly every surface of Lady Petunia Went-Fitworth’s sitting room. Bolts of dark velvet were draped across all the windows.

It was as if the night itself had come down to cover the entire room, settling into every corner. Whisking away what little of the evening light would have been seeping in. The furniture had been cast aside and there stood in the middle of the room, a long table covered with that same fabric that blocked out any living light. The séance table. Even that was draped in black.

Of course, I’m hardly one to talk. My dress was black as was the clutch dangling from my wrist and the fascinator perched upon my head with a modest black plume sticking out. I pushed up the black netting from my eyes or else I wouldn’t have been able to see anything at all in such a room.

The gaslight flickered dimly, clearly turned low for effect, throwing deep shadows on the wall and bringing about a premature midnight.

Lady Petunia Went-Fitworth was standing alongside the table fairly beaming. She wasn’t dressed in black herself but an unassuming dark plum color with a flattering neckline that made her pale skin glow against the surrounding gloom. She had only recently come out of mourning for her mother, but still dressed in solemn colors.

She held out both hands, welcoming me, and kissed each of my cheeks. Dear Daphne, she said as if we were old friends, and I suppose in a way we were. I had spent many girlhood days at their family estate of Rosewood Manor, idling by the stream and plucking wildflowers. Haunting the vast library. But I wouldn’t say we were close then. She is younger than I am and her two brothers are older and so I was often left on my own.

Over the years our families had drifted apart. Mine had separated themselves from much of society after the death of my husband. I, on the other hand, had remained in London and still took visitors and attended a few social events.

And still wore black, as I thought it suited me. I quite relished my role as a young widow. As it turned out, I liked it even better than my short marriage, though I’ll admit that’s not saying much. Even the workhouse would’ve been a step up.

Some see death as their enemy, but in this instance, he was my friend. And the color black helped me remain forever in others’ sympathy while keeping any would-be suitors at arm’s length.

How are you Lady Petunia? I asked earnestly, not yet letting go of her hands.

She tutted. Please won’t you call me Petty? I count you among one of my dearest friends. I nearly choked on the nickname. I managed to let out a small cough to cover it. She had always asked this. I had yet to acquiesce, though I would have to sooner or later if she kept sending me invitations.

I have always suspected that her friends called her that on purpose, either that or they were flimsy enough not to have thought through the implications seriously. I didn’t know if Petty was meant to be a term of endearment or an adjective.

Even so, the nickname had