Scent Of Roses. Kat Martin

They’ll kill your baby.

      Maria whimpered. Dios mio! Gooseflesh rose over her skin and her hand started shaking, her knuckles going pale as she gripped the quilt.

      They’ll take your baby. They’ll kill your baby if you don’t leave.

      She closed her eyes but the image remained, frozen there, behind her quivering eyelids. A child, maybe eight or nine years old, hovering, floating above the floor at the foot of the bed, a little girl, she thought from the sound of the voice, but she couldn’t be sure.

      It is not real, she told herself, repeating what Dr. James had said. It is only in your mind.

      She whispered a silent prayer, told herself to will the image away, and kept her eyes tightly closed for as long as she dared. She repeated the prayer, whispering frantically to the Blessed Virgin, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that her prayer had been answered.

      The eerie sounds slowly melted into silence. Little by little, the harsh smell faded, turning softer, no longer strong, but delicate, almost soothing. The icy chill was gone from the room and the temperature returned to normal.

      But her heart still frantically pounded, slamming against her ribs, and her hands felt clammy, her mouth bone-dry. She shifted fearfully on the bed as another sound reached her ears, a familiar shuffling on the back porch stairs, then the smooth glide of the key sliding into the lock.

      Miguel was home.

      Maria closed her eyes and bit down on her trembling lips, determined not to weep.

      

      Michael James sat behind his desk, listening to the wild tale told by the young Hispanic woman sitting across from him. He had seen Maria Santiago twice this week, but neither of the sessions had proved particularly successful.

      “I saw it, Dr. James. Last night, I saw the ghost. Un espectro. I am not imagining it. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

      “It wasn’t a ghost, Maria. There is no such thing. What happened is that you suffered an anxiety attack. It’s not uncommon. A lot of people at some time in their lives have experienced panic attacks. Normally, I’d have something prescribed for you, a mild dose of Xanax to help you relax along with some Ambien to help you sleep, but with the baby so far along—”

      “I do not need your drugs! There is a ghost in my house and all of the foolish questions you keep asking me are not going to make it go away!”

      He kept his voice steady and calm. “There are reasons for the questions, Maria. We’re working to explore your past. We need to discover if something happened to you during your childhood, something that might not seem important, but is. In cases like these—”

      “No! You ask about my father. Did he love me? Did I love him? I tell you he left when I was two years old. You ask about my mother. I tell you she loved me and Raul. We had no money and life was hard, but it was not so bad. You tell me I must be worried, feeling this thing you call stress, but I am saying that Miguel and me, we are excited about the baby. Until all of this started, I have never been so happy. You say that I am afraid of something I don’t understand and you are right!”

      Her hand clenched into a fist in her lap. “There is a ghost in my house and it is telling me to leave. It is warning me that someone is going to kill my baby!”

      Michael took a long, deep breath and released it slowly. “There. Perhaps you have just hit on the answer to your problem. You’re worried about losing the child. You’ve lost a baby before. Perhaps fear for the child you carry is what’s causing your anxiety.”

      Maria stood up from her chair. He could see that she was trembling. “You don’t believe me. I knew that you would not.” She turned and started walking toward the door, her belly making her sway a little as she moved.

      Michael stood up behind his desk. “Maria, wait a minute. We need to talk about this.”

      She just kept walking, making her way across the small reception area, over to the desk. Michael got up and followed her through the door.

      “I wish to speak to Ms. Conners. Tell her…tell her Maria Santiago would like to see her.”

      “She’s just finishing a session,” the receptionist, Terry Lane, told her. “She should be opening her door any minute.”

      “Fine. I will wait.” She sat down heavily on the sofa, her back broomstick straight, chin thrust out.

      It was only an instant later that Elizabeth’s door opened and a blond woman and a teenaged girl walked out of the office. Elizabeth followed them into the reception area.

      “All right, then. I’ll see you both next week.”

      The woman, about forty with frazzled blond hair, just nodded. She motioned for her daughter to leave and both of them headed for the door.

      Elizabeth’s gaze lit on Maria, standing next to Terry’s desk. Michael stood patiently waiting.

      “Mrs. Santiago would like to talk to you,” Terry told her. Terry was young, in her twenties, with short, spiky blond hair. She had only been working at the clinic for a couple of weeks, and Michael could see she was a bit unnerved.

      “That’s right, Elizabeth,” Michael said from his open doorway. “Maria has something she wants to tell you.”

      Elizabeth flicked him a glance, caught his silent appeal for help. Sometimes it was difficult to win a patient’s trust and obviously Maria trusted Elizabeth, not him. Michael had considered advising Elizabeth to counsel the girl, but anxiety was more his field of expertise, and they were afraid Elizabeth’s relationship with Maria was too close for her to be completely objective.

      Elizabeth smiled at Maria. “I’ve got a few extra minutes. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

      “Why don’t we all go back into my office?” Michael suggested, then waited as the women filed past him into the room. They sat down in chairs on the opposite side of his desk, Elizabeth assessing the girl with obvious concern.

      “Tell her, Maria. Tell Ms. Conners the story you told me.”

      “It is not a story,” Maria said defensively. “Mi casa es encantada.”

      Elizabeth’s blue eyes widened, though she kept her features carefully bland. “I thought we discussed this before, Maria. Surely you don’t really believe your house is haunted.”

      “But I do. There es un espectro. Last night I saw it.”

      “Last night you saw a ghost?”

      “Sí, that is right. It was small…like a child. It sounded like a little girl, but I could not tell for sure. The air was freezing cold and I heard the noises. And there was that same sickening-sweet smell. I am not making it up.”

      Elizabeth flicked Michael a glance and seemed to consider her reply. “If you are that convinced something happened, then perhaps there is another explanation. Maybe the house is just getting older, making different noises than you’re used to. Maybe the smell is something that has died under the house.”

      “I would like to believe it is something like that, but I do not. I only know that something terrible is happening and I am afraid.”

      Elizabeth said nothing more and neither did Michael. In all his numerous cases, he had never had to deal with a ghost, but he could see that Maria was truly afraid.

      “Perhaps I should speak to Miguel,” Elizabeth suggested. “He could investigate, see what might be causing you all of this worry.”

      Maria’s eyes widened in panic. “You must not tell my husband. Miguel will not understand. He will think I am being childish. That is what he says whenever we disagree.”

      Michael leaned across his desk. “Listen, Maria, you can’t go on like this. You need to talk to your husband. I need to speak to him, as well.”

      Maria shot up from her chair.