Maybe it was her imagination but something was definitely causing a stir in the air. She peered out the window into the black night. There was no wind, but the sound was there, whispering to her in the darkness.
Abby Montgomery was an aspiring author and even she wouldn't put such an obvious sound effect into one of her mysteries. Too cliché.
Maybe it was just the cabin she'd rented from her boss, a barrel-chested British man who loved tea time even though he no longer lived in London. There was something a bit eerie about the place. A fire rolled in the fireplace like a bubbling cauldron. Everything about this area was ripe for her vivid imagination. So why was everything she wrote falling flat?
Abby took a break to investigate her surroundings. Maybe she could find a little interesting tidbit about Edmund Briggs, her mysterious employer and co-owner of one of the fastest growing publishing empires, Briggs-Watson Publishing. He had come out of relative obscurity two years earlier without one mention of a history anywhere before that day he started his company. She had wild fantasies about the identities he may have stolen, but he was too much of a stiff shirt to be a bad guy. If she didn't know better, it was almost as if he had walked out of the pages of history.
She stared at the colorful lush greenery blowing around in the watercolor painting decorating the far wall. It had to be one of the biggest she'd ever seen. As she drew closer she realized the sound she had been hearing was coming from the area of the watercolor.
It wasn't possible, was it?
As she touched her finger to the dried paint, the world around her faded away.