Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (35 page)

Sloan came upon several more photos and articles, but another one grabbed his attention. Peter was featured in his hospital bed holding a cigarette, the thing dangling between his fingers as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He sported a big smile and three shapely nurses surrounded him in different poses. A thick wave of dark hair hung over one of his eyes. Sloan chuckled at the caption: “Writer Peter Jones says,
‘I must’ve died and went to heaven! Three gorgeous dames just gave me a bubble bath!’
”

Mr. Jones had definitely been a ladies’ man, and the gossip rags of that time declared he’d left a slew of broken hearts—from affairs with famous actresses, to your average unknown, naïve girl next door. The only thing the man had been committed to, it seemed, was his writing, and he’d been damn good at it. Matter of fact, Sloan believed him one of the three best damn horror writers of his time.

“You were complicated, weren’t cha?” Sloan muttered to himself as he got to his feet. Polishing off the last drops of the now cold coffee, he made his way to the exit, but something made him pause. The air was perfumed with what reminded him of Old Spice. He wanted to push it out of his mind, declare it a figment of his imagination, but he knew better…

“You’re watching me, aren’t you? You came here with me, Peter… No, you led me here, put it on my mind to read all about you. Well, I’m here now, Peter. I’m here, now. You’ve made my life a living hell, you know that? I thought we had a deal, but instead, you tried to wine and dine my woman and then get on my case for makin’ her go home. I don’t want you around, you understand? I don’t care how crazy I look, standing here talking to thin air. I think you know me well enough by now to understand I am not going to just lie back and take your bullshit. I’m not afraid of you, so tell me how to help you, and then get the fuck out of my house, ya got it?”

Not waiting for an answer, he stormed away. He just knew that, sooner or later, Peter would make it crystal clear what his intentions were. And this time, Sloan would be ready.

The man looked
to be approximately in his early 60’s. He stood in the middle of the foyer, a beat up brown cowboy hat pulled down on his head, a button-down green plaid shirt, a gold cross around his flushed neck, and a bushy, silver ponytail hanging down his back. His blue jeans were worn and stained, as if he, too, repaired and restored furniture. His light brown eyes were slightly slanted and his expression serious, but not quite cold. Titus was his name, and he’d been there for at least three hours, not sharing one word as he roamed about the premises.

He spent quite a bit of time outside, but when he ventured indoors during his tour, he kept returning to the office. The investigative team moved around him, continuing their research but giving him his space—a long leash. Emerald and Sloan sat at the dining room table, their nerves completely wrecked. That evening, the investigative team urged her to return after work, but this time, she didn’t care to do so. She had a bad feeling, the kind Sugar had warned about.

When she walked in the front door, a cold breeze hit her and, for some reason, she brimmed with anger. Whatever was going on, the mood had drastically changed from her prior visit and she didn’t need the medium to confirm it. Sloan looked at her every now and again while he drowned himself with coffee and chain smoked as if his life depended upon it. She’d been picking at the same tiny pickle spear for nearly an hour, and the turkey sandwich on her plate had turned hard and stale. Titus wore a pair of brown work boots, the kind a construction worker may wear, so with every noisy step they knew his whereabouts in the house, with or without the cameras.

Those same hard steps approached them after a while. Snatching a chair from the dining room table, he turned it around to face him and rode it backwards, resting his arms along the back. Two of the investigators soon joined them and stood to his side. Emerald’s heart began to beat harder and harder, anticipation and worry the only things she could muster as she picked up the strange, thick energy that floated about in that space.

After sucking on his tongue, looking deceptively bored, the medium offered a listless smile at Sloan.

“Well, sir,” the man stated in a thick, Southern drawl, “you got yourself a real humdinger.”

Sloan broke their eye contact and glared into space, his fingers twitching ever so slightly. More investigators entered the room and sat with them as if some impromptu meeting had been called.

“I’m going to jump right into what I found out. Is that all right with you?” Sloan gave a stilted nod. “Good. I’m sure this isn’t any surprise to you, Mr. Steele, but the spirit creatin’ the most havoc in here is that of Peter Jones. Ya got three in here, to be exact. I’ll get into who the other two are in a second. Now, let me first tell you the rules. Actually, it’s only one rule, but it’s important. Don’t interrupt me while I’m speakin’ unless I ask you something directly—do you understand me?” the man stated grimly.

Sloan nodded in agreement.

“Good. Let’s start from the top. This house had two owners before Peter lived here. None of those folks are here anymore, at least not in spirit. This place has soaked up this man’s torment, and it’s going to take the Lord’s biggest bottle of bleach to clean it all up. He’s mad… mad as hell, okay? And you’re lucky because he’s taken a liking to you and your lady friend here.” The medium shot Emerald a brief look, then turned back towards Sloan. “His original plan when you moved in here was to get rid of you, like he’d done all the others. He preferred to be alone. But as he got to watch you, he decided he liked you so he was kind of torn as to what to do. Now, despite him liking you, he was still leaning towards runnin’ you out of here, but then, he saw
her
.” He motioned in Emerald’s direction. “He figured she’d be a better candidate. You see, he wants to use her to get him what he needs.” Perturbed and confused, Emerald gave him a questioning look. “The reason being, Mr. Steele, is that he tried you first, but it just wasn’t working out. Peter got mighty upset with you that you kept blowin’ him off. The activity got worse and worse, right?”

“Yes,” Sloan quickly answered, then took Emerald’s hand and held it.

“He was tryna get your attention, but you’re a skeptic.” The man grimaced, a thick layer of judgment smeared all over his tone. “Just like right now, you’re listening to me and still wanting to believe none of this is happening to you, but it is!” He smacked the table with a hard hand, causing several people to jump in their seats. “And you’re a damn lie to tell people you don’t believe in this sort of thing, ’cause you know people are empathic and ghosts are real, damn you!

“You saw your own dead grandfather years after the fact. He walked right through your front door. And your girlfriend sittin’ over here,” he said, pointing at Emerald once again, “is a damn sensitive! She’s empathic, you son of a bitch! That’s why Peter likes ’er and that’s why you like ’er, too!”

Emerald gasped, shocked at the revelation. She kept any questions to herself, though, just as she’d been instructed, but the look in Sloan’s eyes damn near body slammed her psyche. She always suspected she might have a touch of sight, as the old folks sometimes called it, but she’d never given much thought to it. Perhaps that was why things like this intrigued her so much.

Sloan dropped his head, and she felt him shake a bit before quickly pulling himself together. He looked back up at the medium, remaining silent.

“Now.” The older man clasped his hands together. “Let’s get something straight. A sensitive is different from a medium or psychic. I’m all three. A sensitive is a person who can feel stuff, pick up on things. It’s just a heightened sensation, but she’s got it. I was told nothing about either of you; this is just what I’m picking up and what the spirits told me, you understand?” Everyone nodded.

“You’re some sort of creative person.” The man slicked out a toothpick from his pocket and began to chew on it while donning a huge, rascally grin. “You’re a writer like ol’ Peter, right?”

Sloan hesitated for a moment, then nodded at that, too.

“No wonder he likes you… all right.” He placed his palms on the edge of the table. “So, I was outside,” he said, pointing behind him, “and not a whole lot is goin’ on out there.” One of the investigators raised his finger in the air.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“That corroborates the neighbors’ testimonies.”

“Cool,” Titus said, then continued, “So, the land has some energy, but for the sake of what we got goin’ on here, none of that is coming inside and bothering you. Now, there is one house about five miles away that is chock full of activity, but it ain’t got nothing to do with what’s going on right here.”

Emerald knew what house he was referring do—the one that had belonged to the woman the city was named after, Raven Maxim, but she kept her mouth shut.

“I know all about Peter now, Mr. Steele. I asked him his name… I do it quietly, mouth closed. He told me Peter. I thought he said Jones as the last name and Steve over here confirmed it when I asked him later. I don’t read horror; not into scary movies, either. I see the real thing on a daily basis, though I understand the fascination. So, I never really knew much about the man or his career, but you’d have to be livin’ under a rock to not know he’d written some of the most famous horror books of his time and movies were made based off them. He let me know right away that he used to be hot stuff, and he was quite proud of his achievements.

“Initially, I didn’t see him, just heard him. He doesn’t want me here, so he didn’t manifest for me right away. That requires energy on their part. After I earned his trust, I could see bits and pieces of him. He was about an inch or two shorter than you.” He pointed to Sloan. “Had black hair, similar in texture to yours, and a long, straight nose. You two don’t look exactly alike, but favor in a few characteristics, physical and personality wise. I asked him what happened to him. Peter turned from looking healthy to gaunt, seeming about thirty years older, though I know he didn’t die an old man. I started having stomach pangs and doubled over, almost vomited.”

One of the investigators nodded, as if he’d been a witness to it all.

“I thought the man may have had stomach cancer, but quickly realized that was wrong once all of the pain stopped and everything seemed self-induced. Peter Jones killed himself. He did in fact sit his ass right back there,” he said, motioning towards the office, “and stop eatin’ and drinkin’. It took a long time, but because he’d become a recluse, he succeeded in carrying it out. I asked him why he did this to himself. He didn’t come across as crazy to me, but I did feel a lot of depression surrounding him, and he used to love the limelight. He wouldn’t give me an answer right then. I followed my instincts and kept moving around the house. I stopped speaking to Peter for a bit, then decided to go on into the kitchen.

“I went in there, and the energy practically blew up in my face. Some woman had been in here takin’ care of him after he’d had some sort of accident, Mr. Steele. It had nothing to do with his death. This happened way before that.” He waved his hand lazily about. “While I stood in there, my head hurt and there was a lot of motion, like he was in a car that was spinnin’ about.”

The investigator raised his finger again.

“Yes?” Titus rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed at being interrupted.

“Peter Jones had had a car accident, sir, that landed him in the hospital for several weeks at the apex of his career.”

Titus nodded and continued on. “Peter was a party animal.” He smirked. “The man liked libations, good food, a bit of reefer every now and again… and women… lots and lots of women. He had the pick of the liter, and he took those liberties every chance he got. But, ya see, some of his behavior was an act. Peter wanted to settle down, but he was scared.” Titus tapped his temple. “This woman I felt in the kitchen and he developed a strong friendship. She took care of him, helped him around, made things easier.

“I got the feeling Peter was protective of this woman, too, and I sensed romantic leanings. I asked him about this, but he refused to answer me.”

“But here’s the kicker. There was a
big
problem with this relationship, Mr. Steele. You see, this woman was smart, real nice lookin’. I saw her with my own eyes. She was single and everything he wanted but there was this one issue. Can you guess what that was?” Titus raised a brow in question as he rocked back and forth in the chair.

“No,” Sloan answered, his expression tight.

“She was Black.”

Emerald was certain her own Blackness had drained from her damn face.

“This was the 1950s, all right? And Peter felt like…” Suddenly Titus’ eyes went from light brown to bright, sparkling blue. The man slammed his fist violently on the table, so much so, it rocked. “It’s not right! I need this to be right!” A voice came out of the man’s body that sounded nothing like the one she’d been listening to in the past thirty minutes. “No one who comes into this house will be all right until you write my story, damn you! Tell my story, you bastard!!!’ Suddenly Titus’ eyes rolled back and he pushed and banged hard on the table.