Farraway Mist ?A Wattpad featured story?

Chapter 11: A Dangerous Game

George woke up first, thank god, with a raging hard on from being pressed up against Scout all night. He carefully extricated himself from her sleeping body, which was nestled trustingly against him. She looked touchingly young in her sleep, lovely soft lips parted slightly, dark, sooty lashes closed against her white skin.

The room looked reassuringly bright and normal in the morning light. The dogs slumbered, taking up way more than their fair share of the bed, legs spread all over the place, tongues hanging out. The bells, which had been so terrifying last night, hung silent over the doorway, and random sunbeams illuminated an exceptionally pretty watercolor of wildflowers that he'd quickly had hung on the day he realized Scout would be sleeping here.

All his efforts to be quiet had been in vain, it seemed; Scout turned and gave a beautiful stretch, her hands pulled into tight fists which she pushed over her head, pulling her pink pajama top up her midriff, exposing the tummy which George found so irresistible. Her eyes fluttered open, and landed on George, and she smiled softly, making George think that whoever got to wake up to that would have to count herself among the luckiest people on earth.

Scout suddenly remembered why George was in bed with her, and the frightening events of last night, her eyes flying to the bells. She sat up, pulling the comforter to her chest as if to protect herself.

"It's okay, you're okay," George soothed, rubbing her back.

She turned wide eyes to him.

"What the fuck happened?" she asked softly.

He shrugged, saying, "I honestly don't know. Maybe something went wonky with the pulls downstairs? Nothing like that's ever happened before. I'll check where they connect later today, though, okay? Maybe just disconnect the whole thing?"

"Oh," Scout said, her disappointment obvious in the one syllable. "They're part of the history of the house, though, part of the charm you were talking about."

George nodded slowly, continuing to rub her back. He felt the same way. But the way they were ringing the night before, so violently, so malevolently. It had been terrifying.

Scout got out of bed, pulling the stool from the vanity over to the doorway, and climbed on it, balancing precariously to examine the bells at closer range. This surprised George. Kelly, for example, would've been cowering in the bathroom, insisting that George disconnect the system immediately.

She reached out a slender finger and flicked one of the bells, which gave a melodious tinkle, not scary at all in the bright light of day, making the dogs wag their tails.

"I don't see anything unusual now," she said, her nose practically touching the bells. "Must be something with the pulls downstairs, like you said," she decided, her no-nonsense, New England upbringing pushing her nighttime vapors away.

"Lots of dust up here, though," she remarked, which made George smile. "Place needs a good spring cleaning, I think, dude."

"I'll get the boys up here, then," he responded from the bed.

She turned to him, eyebrow raised.

"Are you serious right now?" she asked. "What are you, quadriplegic all of a sudden?" At his blank look she clarified, "You can't do a little cleaning yourself?"

He sat up. "I'm a multi-millionaire," he said huffily. "I have people to do those sorts of things for me, as you so astutely pointed out on your first day here."

"George, you can't just hire people to do everything," Scout said as she climbed down off the stool.

"I hired you," he pointed out, getting out of bed. "Working out quite well so far, I think." He smirked at her as he pulled off his shirt.