Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (34 page)

The investigator turned the thing off and slid it in his pocket. “I suggest you allow us to call in a medium at this point, Mr. Steele. We have concrete evidence that you have activity here. Stacey is here,”—the man pointed down the way at a woman with blond, curly hair who was busy whispering into her cell phone—“but we need someone who specializes in this sort of activity.”

At Sloan’s obvious confusion, the man quickly explained, “This is quite serious. You have several things going on at once. There is a poltergeist in your office as we explained to you last night.” He pointed towards the closed doors of the room. “We have proof of at least one intelligent spirit who answers questions directly and we believe there could be more. We’ve picked up the most activity there, in that room, though the energy moves all over the house, just as you suspected. It seems to only be confined to these premises, as well. Your neighbors, based on our interviews with them, are unaffected.”

“I didn’t approve any of this. This isn’t what I agreed to at all!”

“Mr. Steele, I can assure you that—”

“Who is the medium you want to bring into my home?” Sloan crossed his arms, anger smeared on his face, an emotion draped with heavy suspicion.

“Well, he—”

“I told you all that I wanted this kept confidential,” he said, shoving his big, long finger in the man’s face. “You went and spoke to my damn neighbors without my permission. They know who I am, and I’m tryin’ to keep a low profile here! Goddamn it!” He stomped his foot, causing everyone to stop what they were doing and look in his direction. “Do you realize the potential havoc you’ve caused? I have spent—”

“Sloan!” Emerald marched towards the staircase and stood at the bottom, looking up at him and refusing to bat an eye. Enough was enough. “I need you to pull yourself together. This will
not
go the way you want it to, do you hear me? You need to accept that!”

“Stay out of this. Enough has happened to you already! I want you to go home,” he said sternly. “And I want for the—”

“It doesn’t matter what you want!” She banged her fist against the banister. Pain radiated throughout the side of her hand but she didn’t care. Her chest grew taut with stress from the entire ordeal. “It’s about what you
need
! Now look, these people have been doing this for over ten years. They are experts. Cut them some slack!”

“But you don’t understand! All of this could bring me attention that would be detrimental to my career and I don’t want other people involved. This is a private matter, Emerald. I never signed up for this!”

“This was
never
a private matter, Sloan. As soon as you moved in here, you did sign up for this, all right? Peter Jones’ home… unsolved mysteries! You are the only person to live in this house and stay, but you are also the only person, from what we know, who the energy in here didn’t physically attack. Hey, whoever he is or whatever it is wants to be gentle with you, so be thankful for that much.”

“Oh, so now I’m supposed to thank the fucking ghost, Emerald? I’m supposed to say, ‘Hey, dead buddy, thanks for blaring old songs at all hours of the night, for trying to seduce my girlfriend and for putting some fucked up dead baby on my goddamn ceiling’?!” He shook his head violently, as if trying to banish everything around him, including the house itself. “I wish I’d never moved into this fuckin’ place!”

“Buyer’s remorse is far too late. You need to concentrate on what you
can
do, and how to move forward and get this addressed.”

“I agree with your friend here,” the investigator chimed in, though it was clear Sloan intimidated him as his reply had a nervous tinge to it.

“Sloan, baby, look.” She brought her hands together and rested her chin on her fingertips. “Beacon Research Team have a good reputation in Maxim, actually state wide. They are reliable and from what I gather, trustworthy. I checked for myself, too, and you need to put some trust in them since you gave them the go-ahead to come to your home and conduct business. Let them do their job.” She pointed to the investigator standing there, the man now a bit red in the face after witnessing their quarrel. “And besides, if you had it under control and if your way was working out so well, they wouldn’t be here, now
would
they?”

Sloan said nothing, but his grimace grew as his emotions seemed to feast on the downward spiral of his spirit…

“She’s right.” Mike cleared his throat behind her, making his presence known. “Sloan, you have to give it up, man.” He threw his arms up in surrender. “All this time you’ve been trying to control this presence and it hasn’t worked. You thought you could sweet talk it, make deals with it, and it has been doing whatever it wants to do. Whatever is going on, it doesn’t play by our rules. Once it started messin’ with Emerald, it was a wrap.” She shot a puzzled look at Mike at that statement. “Sloan, you called me goin’ the hell off last night. I mean, you were completely losing your shit! I haven’t heard you that angry in… hell, I don’t even know how long.”

Emerald was none the wiser to such a conversation, but not the least bit surprised.

“So do everyone a favor; forget about what people might think, get your pride ’nd ego out the way, and let these people have a fair shot at it.”

On a deep exhale, Sloan closed his eyes, looking completely drained. He’d been double teamed and taken down to the ground. Running his hand across his face, he nodded, finally conceding.

“All right… okay. Do what you have to do.” He waved his hand at the guy. “Just get it, him, whatever the fuck it is out of my damn house.” Then, turning his back, he proceeded to climb back up the steps, his broad shoulders slumped, laboring over each step, as if simply moving left him breathless.

“Mr. Steele, we’ve not seen this much activity in one house in years,” the guy called out before Sloan was all but gone. Sloan paused and looked back at him. “Though I’m certain this has been quite upsetting for you, I and my colleagues are completely fascinated and will do everything in our power to provide some peace for you and your family. Once we compile all the notes of our investigation, we will present them to you. I will be calling the medium today but I let you hear this EVP as proof that your suspicions are correct and to encourage you to move forward with our next plan of action. Your house
is
definitely occupied by a resident other than yourself, and it’s not going to leave without a fight…”

It’s a Cutthroat World…

T
he Maxim Juneberry
branch library was eerily empty. A vaulted snow-white ceiling with contemporary rectangular fixtures beamed streams of fluorescent lighting, making the building look more like an upper-class banking institution rather than a place for reading, relaxing, and research. Sloan sat in a far back room on the third floor, away from the main areas that were filled with tax dollar funded computers and copiers, a children’s area that would make most kids envious, and a media area stockpiled with glossy magazines, documentary DVDs, and music selections on CDs and mp3 purchase catalogs.

He bypassed all of the scenery, even failing to check out several of his own novels that had their place on a stuffed shelf in the fantasy section, and sat secluded in this sterile hideaway, trying to regain his bearings after an unnerving phone call with Joel while driving on the way over. Somehow, the kid had found out about what the hell was going on and berated him with a bunch of
I told you so’s
, repeated like heartburn, in heavy rotation.

He pushed the verbal chastising aside and flipped through the hoary newspapers and articles, the ones not available online, all wrapped in plastic for protection. All of the information he focused on detailed the quite colorful life and dismal death of Peter Jones. The medium was to arrive the following day and, according to the investigation group, the man was not privy to information about his property. It didn’t matter; it was all just plain silly. He didn’t believe in mediums, empaths, sensitives, psychics and the like, but he imagined one’s intuition was a definite compass to take heed of.

A wave of utter hopelessness and foolishness washed over him, all rolled tight into a ball of stress that caught in his throat, refusing to let him form his next thought in peace.

I’m a hypocrite…again.

He didn’t believe many things, but they’d happened, materialized right before him and continued to do so at whim. Not wishing something to be true didn’t make it false; credence within itself was no magic fairy or genie bestowing wishes to all who professed it possible. Belief and truth were not respecters of each other’s lot in life, and humanity was simply caught in the middle of the disappointment and surprise. He didn’t believe in restless ghosts, ravenous demons dying for a nip at one’s soul, malevolent poltergeists or guardian angels; yet,
something
that fit one of those categories now haunted his home, pretending to live, when all it brought to him was an air of death.

Belief had made a fool of him, time and time again, and facing that truth had been Sloan’s greatest challenge as of late. He didn’t think he’d ever fall in love again. But he had, with the most incredible woman he’d ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. Emerald was truth wrapped in flesh, playing on his weakness for needing pure intimacy and authenticity, but she paired her offering with kindness, humor, intelligence, and the ability to express herself without any sugarcoating. He trusted her more than anyone else in his world, and he shocked himself with how fast and hard he’d fallen for the woman.

Their sexual chemistry was the mere cherry on top. He hadn’t believed he could change, believing himself destined to be just as cold hearted as his father; and yet, he’d experienced a transformation. He saw himself now as an idiot and a scholar, all at once. He was in dire need of education, of letting go. His pride was a jagged pill to swallow, one that scratched his insides to shreds on its way down. Grabbing his to-go coffee cup, he popped the lid and savored the liquid warmth as it massaged its way down to his cantankerous gut.

He perused the stack of papers in front of him, one by one, and fell into a spell of sorts. Once again, belief reared its ugly head. He didn’t want to imagine what he was seeing and feeling, but the facts were there, written in black and white.

Peter A. Jones had been born and bred in New York City, just like himself. A charming, handsome bachelor, the man had moved to Maxim to concentrate, to work and be at peace. He’d written his most infamous work right there in that office, at that same desk. Though Sloan didn’t consider himself charming, others seemed to consider him so “when he wished to be.” He’d also never put much stock in his physical appearance, feeling at times like a big oaf, a bit clumsy on occasion. He kept reading, scanning the information, looking for answers, clues, anything to ease his mind.

One report stated that Peter had never married or had any children. The historian Emerald had taken him to had already given him this piece of information, so this was nothing new. None of this helped quench his curiosity and need for answers.

The photos of the man showed he’d been indeed dapper. For some reason, Sloan found himself smiling as he looked into the eyes of the fellow. They had the same grin—a titled smirk—and their eyes seemed to glimmer with the same twisted brand of mischievousness. Peter Jones had dark hair, a bit long at the top, when not donning one of his infamous hats. There was an air of class and illustriousness about him, too. Many of the photos featured him lounging about in expensive suits, distinguished top hats, smoking cigarettes and expensive cigars, and downing glasses of cognac. In one black and white photograph in particular, a close up, Sloan felt like the man was looking him in the eye.

They both were tall, but Peter had a lanky physique, like an imposing but slender, pyramidal tupelo tree from Georgia. They did share a few things in common, which had little to do with writing. Like Sloan, Peter had been a loner and also possessed quite a temper. He was eccentric and suave, loved but aloof. He attended lavish, big name A-lister revelries, but according to some reports from that time, he preferred small, intimate dinner parties where conversation flowed more easily.

He had a reputation of coming across as real and genuine, but truth be told, no one knew the
real
Peter Jones at all. To that, Sloan could relate. Mr. Jones had been a walking mask, and the only time he’d appeared to let his guard down happened after a serious car accident in which his turquoise Chevrolet Corvette Roadster rolled over three times down a heavily wooded embankment one early Sunday morning.

He’d been rushed to the hospital, and doctors said it was a miracle that he survived; and not only that, he only had one broken rib and a few minor scratches and bruises. His writing had changed somewhat after that event, according to several close friends and fans. It was more ‘thoughtful, introspective and provocative’, as one person reported.

Sloan surmised a near death experience could do that to a man. Trauma had a way of turning the tide, making one consider their life from various angles, and being thankful that angle didn’t involve being six feet under. Peter had escaped death, but then, for some reason, handed himself over to it after cheating it and denying the Grim Reaper his reward. How very bizarre…