Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (33 page)

“She even packed up and moved to another town and he followed her. She was losing her mind and went and got a second opinion. She called on another demon worker, a witch or something or other like that to help her reverse it. They gave her some candles and stuff. She did some magic and then went out with a few friends of hers to a festival. Like a puppy dog, he followed her there. They got to arguin’ and carrying on and then some big security guard man saw what was going on and tossed him around like he was on the damn Ferris wheel all by his lonesome.”

“Was he charged full price for the ride?”

“He was beaten almost beyond recognition.”

“But the clothes that he kept wearing day after day helped authorities identify him, right?”

“Broken bones and a whole lot of blood. It was a mess, ’cause that love cursed man put up a hell of a fight until the bitter end.”

“Bert the flirt got hurt…” Emerald stifled a burst of laughter, trying to keep it bottled up while Sugar relayed her ridiculous story, but it proved far too much. Her snarky comments were no longer enough and the merriment swelled within her until it was out in the open. She cackled and screamed in sheer amusement.

“Keep on makin’ fun, ya hear? Now I’m serious, I ain’t gone tell you no mo’e! That man had to go on to the hospital; he was in critical condition and
still
callin’ out for her while on his hospital bed!”

“So what’s the moral of this story, Sugar? What happened at the end?”

“It took thirty more days for that new spell to take hold, but when it finally did, he ain’t want not one thang to do with her anymore… and you know what happened after that?”

“He got some clean clothes and a vasectomy?”

“A month or so later, he won the lottery and got back with his ex-wife. Yo’ cousin on the other end lost a good job, her home and everything. She ain’t never get married, either. There’s a price to pay when you start messin’ around with stuff you ain’t got no business fiddling with.”

“I’ll make sure to tell Sloan to stay away from carnivals. I gotta go, Sugar.”

“All right, but if you think that ghost done followed you back home after you done sat up in that office reading that book, don’t call me. He might try to climb through the phone and get me next!”

“Don’t worry, once the ghost sees how you are, he’ll come running right back!”

A Ghost of a Chance

…Three days later

T
he Beacon Research
Team had been inside Sloan’s home for two days and two nights. Five of them, all clad in industrial style coats and grim expressions stamped on their faces. Emerald sat on the baby blue paisley couch right alongside Mike, who was nursing his third beer.

She quickly realized after a brief conversation why this man was her honey’s best friend. Mike was a good guy and genuinely cared, and they had a lot of history together. Mike made it known immediately that Sloan had been a hopeless skeptic, to the point of irritating his family and colleagues. It was rather unfortunate that he had to be broken in this way, but such is life. She held tight to her crunched and crinkled bottle, now filled with vending machine lemon flavored Nestea. TLC’s ‘Silly Ho’ played on a nearby radio, barely audible. She found the tune rather amusing in the scheme of things; it helped offer some much-needed lightheartedness to the somber situation.

It had been a long day, but she was determined to help. She’d arrived right after work, and was greeted with a cup of hot coffee, which she quickly gulped down. A pair of tired eyes beamed into hers, belonging to the man she loved. Sloan was not giving her much information, despite her repeated questioning. He stated he wanted the full picture before disclosing anything, but it was evident to her that, regardless, he desperately needed the emotional support. He disappeared just as quickly as he’d shown his face to her, a vapor that cradled his cell phone in one hand and some sort of slippery grasp of reality with the other.

In their semi-abandoned state, she and Mike had gotten to know one another as they watched people stepping over bunches of thick black cables and heard the whispers of strangers walking about with electronic devices that buzzed and beeped. All around, high-tech equipment had been set upon fancy tripods. Creating a surrealist scene she’d only seen in the movies. The noise was in fact a bit jarring; at times, a series of automated thunderclap-like sounds would startle her so with their ruckus. Her last time there, however, was much quieter…

On the evening she was lured into his office after going to fetch a bottle of water like Jill from the fairytale rhyme, something bizarre had transpired that she still hadn’t quite wrapped her mind around. It was an experience she didn’t dare tell Sugar, nor anyone else for that matter. She simply told Sugar she’d lost track of time while reading a book and it felt a bit surreal; the other details she kept safe and hidden. She’d only told Sloan and even hesitated to reveal the particulars to him for a second or two. Once she’d finished stating her recollection of the events to him, she witnessed the color drain from the poor man’s face.

His lips had twisted as if he was suddenly filled to the brim with outright disgust and his brows had bunched and knitted, creasing his forehead a thousand times over. His vivid green eyes had brimmed with emotions—ones he halfheartedly tried to hide. What she’d mistaken as fright, though, hadn’t been fear at all. Nor incredulousness… No, it had been pure, 100% anger, a rich, dark and deep hatred.

Sloan had frantically raced up the steps, dragging her along like some kite tied to his wrist. She could barely keep up, and before she could scream at him to slow down or turn her loose, he’d spun around on a dime, picked her up with one arm, pressed her into his chest and carried her the rest of the way into his bedroom, slamming the door behind them. After depositing her on the bed, he made a phone call, demanding that the paranormal group he’d communicated with via email weeks prior come to the house as soon as possible. He screamed into the damn phone, leaving a voicemail filled with New York style expletives—fast, succinct, and back to motherfucking back. She’d sat on the bed listening to the enraged man rant and rave, and couldn’t very well blame him after the things she’d said…

Like how she’d been taken by the hand into the darkness…

The touch was icy cold, a zephyr of coolness that made her teeth literally chatter.

And yet… she had no fear.

She’d explained how her seat had been pulled out as if she were in the presence of a true ghostly gentleman. She’d seen the damn chair move on its own, and when she’d opened her mouth to scream, no sound came out. And then, the warmth had come, surrounding her like a hug from something suave and seductive rolled in the glittery dust of childhood nostalgia. A sense of familiarity encompassed her. At that point, she was no longer concerned or battling her emotions; matter of fact, it had felt like visiting an old friend.

She sat down, as if compelled and had no say in the matter. She had no compulsion to put up much of a fight as she’d become someone else—quiet, timid, almost as though the blood had stopped flowing in her veins, and she’d become a mere spirit, watching herself from afar. The old tunes from yesteryear, songs she’d only known of superficially through Aunt Sugar and Daddy, kept playing. How they kept changing on their own and how the music had begun in the first place, she had no idea. And yet, the mysteries continued—like, why was she led to that room, and what drew her to that book, in the first place?

Once she’d had the novel in her grasp, she clung to each and every word of it, ignoring what felt like a kiss upon her hand, the warm burst of breath against the nape of her neck, and the distinct scent of fat cigars and old-fashioned cologne drifting in the air, reminiscent of Old Spice. The untitled book had pulled her in, its passages hauntingly beautiful. She didn’t feel like she was reading, though—more listening to a narrator, a deep, soothing voice that shepherded her along, page by page. The book told the tale of a wealthy bureaucrat who’d fallen hopelessly in love with a woman hailing from a family cursed with generational poverty.

Society looked down on such a thing, and their love was never made public. She suddenly died, leaving him completely grief stricken. After falling into a bout of depression, the man solicited the aid of a wicked sorcerer and begged that he revive her; only, the warlock refused. Emerald later felt queasy at the irony of Aunt Sugar’s story of her cousin’s unfortunate dealings with a love potion. In the book however, the sorcerer stated it was his punishment, his just desserts for turning his back on the young lady in her time of need. The bureaucrat died of a broken heart, filled with self-reproach and never-ending sorrow that seemed to know no end…

And then, Sloan complained of his own torment knowing no end, too. After she’d relayed her story and he’d received a firm promise that help was on its way, the man had quietly driven her home.

He’d insisted she needed to be safe and away from it all, but soon after, his phone call to her had proved he was right to be concerned. Apparently, when he returned to his house, another record was playing, this time on the lowest speed and in reverse: ‘Sleepwalk’ by Santo and Johnny Farina. The house was colder than ever, he’d said, so much so, a thin layer of frost coated most of the first floor windows. An unnerving knocking noise kept sounding throughout, like someone slamming a thick metal cane against the wall in a fit of rage, demanding to be heard. The thumping was coming directly from the office, yet he could see no one inside… nor could he find the record player to turn the damn thing off.

His eyes might not have been trained, but his spirit and heart certainly were. He could feel the anger in the place, spreading like an incurable disease, reaching for him as if he’d done something gravely wrong. The warning had crawled and sunk its claws into his psyche, leaving him uneasy and soon battling a throbbing headache for hours on end. He couldn’t work or sleep, and now feared he might even be hallucinating. What was truth, and what was his imagination? It all blurred together like fog against a smoky horizon.

He’d warned her to not step foot on his property until this was sorted out. He couldn’t explain it, but he claimed something wanted her back… and it wanted her back right away. His words had left her trying to catch her damn breath, though she’d played it as cool as she could while she’d listened to him pour out his worries on the phone.

Sloan had every right to be concerned. She surely wouldn’t argue with him or try to convince him that everything was fine. There were too many missing pieces, things she still didn’t recall about her night in that office, every piece adding fuel to the fire that neither of them knew had ignited in the first place. All of this caused her to internalize the situation, think it over until she’d worked it into a wet pulp inside of her mind; and she felt a little guilt, too…

Why didn’t I just stay in bed that night? I could’ve asked him to get me something to drink instead. I knew what was up with that house…

But something had compelled her, and the curiosity became too much.

Why didn’t I run when the office doors opened, scream out for Sloan or fight?

But she’d lost her voice, her reasoning, her sense of time and space…

Why was I fighting driving back there that night, getting the urge to ignore his warnings? It was almost a compulsion… Something is wrong… very wrong!

She danced away from her own thoughts and turned to look at Mike, who was now sound asleep and snoring lightly, leaning off to the side with a pillow covering half of his wide face.

Smiling, she shook her head, crossed her legs, and wondered what other secrets the big house held that they’d yet to uncover. Such a beautiful place it was… filled with unnerving history and unexplained depravity. She’d only showed up today because of the investigators who’d insisted she be present at least during a portion of the investigation. She was now, willing or not, a part of this thing…

Just then, a tall, slender man with dull, short-cropped hair and a long, pointy chin entered the room. Shoving his glasses up his nose, he barked, “Mr. Steele! Mr. Steele!” Some sort of recorder in his hand, the man rushed up the staircase, meeting Sloan halfway. Mike suddenly awoke from his slumber from all the commotion and Emerald stood to her feet, straining to listen to their conversation. “You need to hear this EVP.”

“EVP?” Sloan ran his hand along his wrinkled, light gray shirt, looking worn out due to lack of sleep. His typically well coiffed hair was sticking up in the oddest of places and his beard had grown a bit too long and bushy, though she still found him incredibly sexy, even in his current state. Nevertheless, she pitied the man. Sloan looked as if he’d fought a hundred men, and had a hundred more to go.

“Electronic voice phenomenon…” the man explained, pushing a button on the thing and placing it up to Sloan’s ear.

Initially, Sloan looked fine. Actually, he was quite expressionless, his typical sarcastic expression set proudly upon his face, with an ever so slight tilted grin. But then his expression morphed… the twisted mouth, the bunched brows, the eyes tapering into dark slits.