Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (23 page)

“…Yes.” Sloan hung his head and offered nothing further.

“You know what? You’re a writer, he was a writer. Maybe he’s taken an interest in you ’cause of it.”

“That’s comforting.”

Mike laughed lightly at Sloan’s sarcasm.

“I did call the real estate agent to ask her about the house but she hasn’t called me back yet.”

“And she probably won’t.” Mike rolled his eyes. “She knew this place was fuckin’ haunted.”

“Yeah, she probably did, but I can’t be angry with her because it wouldn’t have stopped me anyway.” He shrugged. “I just would have blown it off.”

“Yeah, probably…”

“So, I’m going to get online and see if I can get someone out here… one of those television paranormal teams maybe. Can you do me a favor though, Mike?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Don’t tell the guys about this. Don’t tell Owen, David, nobody.”

“All right.”

“Promise me.”

“Sloan, I promise to not open my fucking pie hole about it, all right?” He tossed up his hands.

“Thank you.” The big guy slowly got to his feet. “You want some coffee? I’m going to the kitchen to put some on.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

When Sloan left, Mike took a moment to think, then picked the camera back up and perused the photos again. He hated how his heart beat fast at seeing the pictures, even the second and third time around. He set the thing gently back down on the couch and clasped his hands together.

“I don’t know what the hell is in here. I don’t know what’s going on, but
whatever
is in this damn house, don’t come near me! Don’t moan and groan and cry and read fucking books and slam doors and windows, either. And leave my friend alone. We’re like brothers. He’s been through enough. You mess with him, you’re messin’ with
me
!” he hissed.

Drafting an Eviction Notice

“T
he Scream Theater?”
Sloan looked up at the massive, slightly sloped roof of the place, all boarded up as it was, reminding him of a large black box that had suddenly landed on planet Earth. It looked ill formed and out of place. Splintered light brown wood covered the windows with crooked, tetanus inducing silver nails darkened with time, and shards of glass glistened around the jagged window frames.

“Yes, it was a movie house that only played horror and suspense flicks.”

“I see.”

“They closed it down because people began to go over to the big deluxe theater instead. It was a fun place though. It’s a historic building and I hope they restore it and open it back up.” After recent days, the last thing he wished to view was such an atrocity; this was nightmare fuel, the type of dwelling that ended up in some bad dream. But, he kept a straight face all the same.

“So you used to go here as a teenager, huh?” Sloan hooked his hand around hers, enjoying their time together despite the uneasy feeling that came over him as he glared at the place.

“Yes, me and my friends, a band of rowdy misfits.” She laughed. “We’d be here all the time.” Her smile was sweet, pure exuberance. “I was never really a fan of horror movies but this was the place to be, you know?”

Thoughts of his own anomalous circumstances and mystical predicament flooded his head. He wanted to ask Emerald certain questions about the geography of the place; perhaps she knew some answers. Besides, she’d lived there for the majority of her life, and from their expedition that day, she seemed quite in the know. She’d been an excellent tour guide, showing him various eateries, small cafes and little shops filled with interesting knickknacks and the like. She’d taken him to the train station, a bustling place that reminded him of Grand Central. One of the best moments was spent on a small, cobblestone paved street that had nothing but book, art, and music stores, bursting at the seams with creative energy. And then, they’d happened upon a grand library that favored the outward appearance of the White House.

The structure sat atop a lopsided hill, the lawn lush, despite winter knocking on the proverbial door. An iron gate wrapped protectively around the thing and the adjoining parking lot was almost full. It was amazing to see such a crowd around a library in this day and age, but Emerald explained there was a children’s’ museum inside as well, and furthermore, some pretty coveted one-of-a-kind books and articles. He’d already made plans to do a bit of research at the county library since the records online pulled more myth and folklore versus hardcore facts. He figured a bit of both may help him along his studies.

Regardless of what comprised fact or fiction, one thing was 100% true: he was living with a phantasm, and required remedies. Oddly enough, Sloan began to believe he was dealing with more than just something, or someone, living out their heyday. The ghost seemed clever, as if it knew Mike’s intent for being there, and it foiled his plans, ruining them as soon as they were set in place.
Eyewitness my ass…
He’d get none of that—not last night with Mike, not ever. Rather, if he tried to bring in anyone, a long night of mockery would ensue. In that entire time with Mike, not a peep was heard in the house all damn evening as long as his friend remained in the house—no doors opened and closed, no wispy apparitions, floating about into nothingness. Mike didn’t seem the least bit surprised at the turn of events, but he was more than relieved that the restless spirits of the night didn’t make their presence known as he quickly packed up the following morning, wolfed down a continental style breakfast, and promised to touch base after he got back to Manhattan.

Despite the humdrum events of the prior evening, Sloan uploaded the photos as well as the videos online, to a private server, only to discover that most of them had turned out pitch black and blank. He suddenly felt like his friend looking through the camera viewfinder with the damn lens cap on. Even the audio rendered little of nothing, as if the sound had been sucked clean through a vacuum. The images remained clear on the camera, but undetectable online; it was the oddest thing, unexplainable to say the least. After hours of troubleshooting, he gave up the photographic gauntlet, but his efforts to obtain assistance didn’t cease. He knew what lurked in the house; actually, he
didn’t
know what was in that place he now called home. That was the whole damn problem.

The only certainty he had was that
some
thing in fact moved about the premises, living with him, watching him inhale and exhale, spying on him from a distance, or perhaps, right by his side. In its own mysterious, hair-raising way, it wished him to know
it
was there; thus, he wanted to get to the bottom of it, and wanted it gone, too. So, he drafted an email to a local paranormal group after conducting a little investigation that morning. They replied with a form letter in which they promised to get back in touch with him within 72 hours.

He scoffed at this as his situation was an emergency, and surely they had to understand the struggle and torture one could experience in such cases. But, what else could he do? Surely calling 911 would not render any credible results, except a visit from an enraged officer giving him a warning to stop playing on the phone, then bullying him into a sobriety test.

Who do you call when you need immediate help of the supernatural kind? For a toothache, you call the dentist. If you have a car accident, you call the police to file a report, as well as your insurance company. But what about cases like this? Each hour felt like an eternity, for as soon as Mike left, the activity resumed, and it was relentless, as if making up for lost time. To make matters worse, a sense of enragement was felt as the doors slammed doubly hard, then the ruckus suddenly stopped just as quickly as it had begun.

Sloan hated himself for only half listening to Emerald explain the history of one of the nearby gardens at that moment…

Fuck flowers.

They strolled along, and he nodded and smiled at all the right times, but his poor brain was somewhere else, swimming in the sauce of doubt and incredulity at how his life journey had turned from a tour in the pit of resentment to the crossroads of a ghostly encounter.

“And that is why the tulips planted right there are always pink…”

“Emerald?” He paused and held out his arm to stop her, causing her body to do a slight yo-yo as he caught her in mid-stroll.

“Yes?”

“What do you know about Glen Falls?”

“Where you live?” She gave him a look of confusion. “Well, it’s pretty exclusive and the homes are old, sizeable… private. I haven’t been over that way very often. It’s kind of out of the way.”

He darted his gaze back and forth, and he tried to no avail to keep a straight face, but the strain and pressure of it all was making that damn near impossible.

“Is something wrong?” Her brows dipped as she moved closer to him, the scent of her floral perfume soothing him just a touch. “You’ve been awfully quiet today.”

“I’m sorry.” He rubbed along his brow, then placed his hands on his hips. “Yeah, there is something wrong but I’m risking sounding crazy if I tell you.”

“Uh, Sloan, in our last conversation I told you that I still play hopscotch, get angry when I can’t figure out my crossword puzzles, and had a disgusting habit of collecting my finger clippings in a jar from age twelve to thirteen due to some ridiculous superstition I had!” His voice sprang out in a relieved chuckle. “So, sounding crazy isn’t exactly something I can accuse someone else of at the drop of a dime.” Her smile grew brighter. “So, what is it? What’s on your mind?”

“How can I say this?”

“What do you mean how can you say it?” She smirked as she took his hand and swung it to and fro. She made him smile, slide into a feeling of ease. “You just say it.”

“My house is haunted.” He hated how her smile instantly vanished, like the damn ghost in his house. “I knew you wouldn’t understand this because it sounds stupid.” He sighed.

“No,” she denied, vehemently shaking her head and releasing her hold on him. “That’s not what I’m thinking at all, actually. You know, that is the oldest inhabited area of Maxim; it has a lot of history. Raven Maxim, the woman who established this city, had her house built over there, too. There are plenty of stories, trust me. I believe you.”

“Just like that, you believe me?” He laughed in disbelief.

“Of course.” She threw up her hands. “Why wouldn’t I? What is so unbelievable about a spirit being in a house, especially an old house such as yours that’s rich with chronicles?”

“Well, I—”

“I’m actually insulted that you thought I would think it insane!” She chuckled, and his heart beat a bit faster as he began to feel things for her right at that second. Never in his life had he met someone like Emerald, and this was just another reason why he was so attracted to her… her open-mindedness, her practical nature, the fact she wasn’t naïve.

“I guess because, to tell ya the truth, Emerald, I didn’t believe in ghosts until I moved here and this happened. To me, most things can be explained, ya know? Just because we may not know the reason doesn’t mean it’s some hocus pocus type stuff… but this is different. There is no way it can all be rationally explained away. Trust me, I tried. It took me a while to accept that, but…” He looked down at the ground then back into her eyes. “I knew all along, and it is a little disorienting and humbling, I suppose.”

“Ohhhh, so the skeptic is now the believer? I don’t consider myself irrational.”

“I never said that, or believed you were.”

“I understand, but the reason why I said that, Sloan, is to let you know that not all people who believe in these sorts of things have only third grade educations, are overly superstitious or anything like that. Some of us are regular people—just like you. I personally think a lot of times we jump to conclusions, you know? You see it in the media all the time. I like facts, too… I look for evidence and proof. I may not be as proficient with fact checking as you—that’s what you went to school for after all—but I try to look for different explanations for things like this before I jump the gun.”

All he could do was lower his head as a surge of mortification at his own arrogance overcame him. His son’s urgent warnings rang in his head, and his best friend’s beliefs, which he’d often ignored up until now.

“Let’s kick our feet up for a bit.” She pointed to a thick, wraparound gray wall where they could sit, take a load off. He followed her, eager to speak, yet, he wrestled with what he would say and how to say it. Perhaps he should just be honest, and leave the pre-planning behind. They sat side by side on the cool concrete. The sparse trees caught the wind, instigating the few leaves on the branches to shiver and rattle about. The pale yellow sun beamed upon them, giving a much-welcomed trace of warmth on an otherwise chilly day. Pulling her mid-length black and white striped coat somewhat tighter around her form, she crossed her long, shapely legs, hugged up in black jeggings and looked at him, all the while twirling her ankle in a relaxed sort of way.

“So, let’s get into the details…” Damn, he loved her calming, sultry voice. Emerald should’ve been doing voiceover work, perhaps for radio commercials and audio books, but he’d address that with her at another time. “What’s
specifically
happening at your house?” she asked, crossing her hands over her lap.