Ghostwriting (28 page)

The man appeared to be battling himself a moment and then calmed. ‘I am fine,' Logan responded, and his voice had a weak Scottish accent that Karita had not detected before now.

‘Did you sense something?' Preston queried him further.

‘Hard to say.' Logan looked about and then started walking slowly around the room, as if scanning for vibrations.

Preston wondered about the psychic's sudden swing in accent, but then, Logan was a bit eccentric. ‘You recalled something earlier,' Preston turned his attention back to Karita, ‘when you were looking at your picture. What was it you were thinking?'

Karita folded her arms definitely. ‘I just got back from a stint in the Middle East. Do you really think a handgun is going to make me shudder with fear?' she stalled.

Logan had a metal poker in hand and was coming up behind Preston with it. Whether this was a good sign for her, Karita didn't care. Her plan was to wait for the strike and run.

A clean, hard blow to the back of the head brought Preston to the ground and Karita made a break for the door, but in her rush she tripped on her suitcase and ended up on the floor herself. She rolled over to see Logan standing over her.

‘What are you doing?' she stammered, far more afraid of Logan than Preston.

‘Fear not, Karita.' He held out a hand to help her up. ‘At present, Logan de Scott is as unconscious as the American fancy boy over there.'

His new accent made her smile, it was so lovely; and more chirpy and friendly. ‘How do you mean?'

Having aided her to her feet, he did not let go of her hand. ‘My name is Tristan de Scott, lass,' and as she seemed confused, he clarified, ‘your resident ghost.'

Karita quickly withdrew her hand, and backed away from Logan, then tripped on an overturned standing lamp and blacked out when her head hit the hard timber floor.

4. Ghost Control

The surface on which she lay seemed not to be entirely stable; her body being tossed about was what woke Karita. The sound of a male grunting was most tedious and she opened her eyes to find Preston Molay, tied up and gagged on the bed beside her.

‘Oh, my God!' She sprang from the bed to get away from him. ‘OUCH!' Her head was absolutely splitting. When she was capable of conscious thought, she wondered why she hadn't been tied up. ‘Where is Logan?'

Preston tried to mumble through the bandage but couldn't make himself understood. Karita's head
hurt too much to listen to his babbling, so she dragged down his gag.

‘He's possessed,' Preston warned. ‘I don't know where he is. Outside, maybe?' As Karita went to pull the gag up again Preston managed to squeeze out. ‘He's dangerous, Karita, you'll need my —'

‘I don't need anything from you.' Just seeing Preston so defenceless and annoyed made Karita feel a whole lot better. Maybe she had misjudged Logan.

My name is Tristan de Scott, lass, your resident ghost.
The last thing she had heard before blacking out came flooding back to stun her to a standstill. Preston meant Logan was possessed in a literal sense!

‘Oh, my God,' she muttered to herself as she searched for a phone.
Who the hell am I going to call?
she wondered as she searched.
The police? Hello, a lunatic who is possessed by my house ghost is threatening me and there's a millionaire tied up in my bedroom. No, I think not. I could call Aldo … but he'll only go to pieces —

Someone clambering about outside snatched Karita's attention and she moved to a window to investigate.

It was Logan. He had her extension ladder out and was climbing up to the roof.

‘The chimney stacks!' Karita panicked and for some strange reason she felt it was imperative that Logan didn't discover what she now suspected was
a grand and sacred treasure hidden on her roof. She hauled arse outside and stood, hands on hips, to yell up at him. ‘What the hell do you think you're doing? I've called the police,' she lied, nursing her throbbing head with one hand, ‘and they're on their way.'

‘We haven't got much time then,' Logan retorted, impervious to her threat. ‘You'd best get up here and give me a hand.'

Karita suppressed her urge to laugh. ‘Do you think I'm insane? I wouldn't climb up there with you if my life depended on it.'

‘Well, your life does depend on it, I'm afraid.' He approached the chimney stacks and stood between them. ‘I died a century ago, so I don't really have to worry too much in that regard.' Logan took several paces backwards, squatted down and then held his right thumb up high as if getting his bearings on the landscape below.

Karita knew it was crazy, but suddenly she felt well disposed toward this man, as if she'd known him before; his accent was so familiar. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Well, the layout of the garden has changed somewhat since I saw it last … as has our fair city,' he commented with a large smile, as he stood once more and gaped at the surrounding area.

Logan took a moment to absorb the sun, as if it were a new experience for him — or a simple delight
that he'd not partaken of for a long time. He then drew in a deep lungful of air and appeared surprised when he nearly choked. Karita began to entertain the notion of Logan hosting a soul from the past far more seriously. Logan seemed convinced of it, anyway. ‘So, you're up there to admire the view, is that right?'

‘Partly,' he granted, getting over his coughing fit and dislodging one of the stacks from the roof.

‘Hey!' Karita protested at his damaging her house any more than he had done.

‘When you take a closer look, I think you shall agree that these cannot remain here any longer … especially now that they have been
cleaned
. I had hoped that mankind might have grown up considerably in the last hundred years … but it seems to be womankind that has been doing all the growing.'

This man was definitely not the Logan de Scott that Karita had met yesterday. His manner, the way he moved and spoke — everything had changed. Karita did not flee when he brought the chimney stack down for her to peruse. As suspected, it was covered in the same hieroglyphs as those in her painting. ‘You did this, Tristan?' She ventured to use the ghost's given name to address the man.

Logan nodded, then shrugged and gave an easy smile. ‘I was just the humble scribe for the knowledge of those far greater than I.'

His voice made Karita's heart flutter and his gaze, that had only yesterday disturbed her, gave her a warm, sensual feeling all through her body. ‘But how could a sixteenth century artist paint a picture of columns that you did not engrave until centuries afterwards?' Karita frowned, confused.

‘'Tis possible,' Tristan assured, ‘if my muse and the sixteenth-century artist were one and the same soul-mind.'

‘It is rumoured that I have been a muse for you.' It was impossible not to feel embarrassed about their situation. ‘You've been living with me all these years?'

A broad smile crossed Logan's face, which he appeared unable to smother. ‘It is not my fault I am bound to this house,' he explained. ‘You're the first tenant I've been able to converse with regularly —'

‘When have we conversed?' Karita asked, curious.

Logan scratched his skull, feeling he might be in trouble here. ‘Every night, when you sleep,' he confessed. ‘I tell you stories. You tell me all about your travels and your art … we discuss art quite a bit actually, and philosophy.'

Karita was gobsmacked a moment. ‘No wonder I feel like I know you.' Her embarrassed smile was starting to make her face ache. ‘I sleep naked almost all the time.'

‘I know.' Logan was really struggling to suppress that grin now. ‘But I never look.'

Karita smothered a screech in her hands and then took a deep breath to get a grip. ‘This is
too
weird.'

Logan shrugged. ‘I suspect it will only get weirder from here.'

Karita gathered her shattered sensibilities. ‘Well, weird is an improvement on threatened and scared, I guess.'

‘There could be more of that too, lass.' He left the chimney stack with Karita and headed for the roof again to retrieve the other one.

‘Why don't you just drop the stacks from the roof? That ought to destroy them.' Karita presumed he wanted to get rid of them so they didn't fall into the wrong hands.

‘I have some unfinished business to attend to.' He climbed down the ladder with the other chimney stack.

‘How long can you run around in your great-grandson's body?' Karita was supporting her head in both hands, as she asked the awkward question.

‘Do you want me to fix that?' Logan queried as he set the stack he carried down beside the other one.

‘What?' Karita moaned, agitated by her pain.

‘Your head,' he said. ‘Mind if I touch it?'

Karita squinted as she looked up at him, for the morning sun was at his back. ‘If it will mean stopping this throbbing, you can sever my head if need be.'

‘Shouldn't need to take such drastic action.'

His large hand encompassed her entire crown, and as soon as his palm came to rest upon the trouble spot the relief was instant. A warm, bubbly energy poured through her and washed the pain clean away.

Tears filled her eyes; Karita couldn't prevent them, for it felt as if she'd been touched by an angel. She had never been a very religious person; she expressed her spirituality through her art. Karita couldn't say that she hadn't believed in ghosts before this, she had just never given them much thought. Now she had been healed by one, who had gallantly found a way to return to the land of the living to defend her from a dangerous foe. True, he was the one who had landed her in this trouble, but how wonderful that he'd taken responsibility and was doing something to right the damage.

Her pain gone, Karita again looked up at Logan and was surprised to find that she saw another man superimposed upon his frame, highlighted by the rays of the sun. It was the long strands of fair, wavy hair, falling down over his shoulders and beyond, that first captured her attention, but the translucent man seemed to be of a slightly bigger build than Logan. Karita couldn't make out the features of his face, but she imagined that Logan had inherited some of his comely looks from his great-grandfather — perhaps even those dimples on his cheeks. ‘That
felt amazing,' she said, overawed by the situation. ‘But you didn't answer my question … how long have you got?'

‘As long as I can keep this mortal body awake.' Tristan served her a confident wink. ‘As soon as I grow weary, Logan's rested soul will knock me out of here and he will regain possession.' Logan picked up the stacks and headed back inside with them.

‘Wow,' Karita mumbled, her mind awash with possibilities and visions of adventure and mystery. A sudden chill swept over her, snatching away her lovely mood. ‘Tristan?' She rounded the house and nearly had a fit when she entered the back door and saw Logan out cold, on the floor.

‘No, you don't.' Preston reached out from his hiding spot beside the doorway and grabbed hold of Karita's wrist as she tried to flee. ‘We have what we need for the hunt,' he motioned to the stacks Logan still clutched to his body, ‘so let us depart.'

‘What do you need me for?' She pulled away, but one sharp tug found Karita in Preston's embrace.

‘Protection from your muse,' he replied.

Logan began grumbling as he came round. ‘What the hell happened?' He looked down at the stacks he held under both arms and remembering nothing about them, he soon figured it out. ‘Help me out of the house,
quickly
.'

Preston, unable to hold Karita and aid Logan at
the same time, turned to her to with an apologetic look on his face. ‘Sorry, sweetheart.'

He covered her nose and mouth with a mask and she struggled momentarily before everything blurred into dreamland.

 

After his last effort, Tristan did not have the strength to boot Logan out of his body a second time and as he watched Preston aid Logan back out to the car, all hope of saving Karita walked out the door with them. Or did it?

Preston had left Karita in the small laundry that led to the back door, but as this room also contained a toilet, both the interior and exterior doors could be locked from the inside.

Tristan made speed to the laundry and, once inside, summoned all his strength to will the room's interior door closed. Fortunately, Preston had already shut and locked the exterior door. Unfortunately, the young art collector had re-entered the house in time to see the door close and was now racing down the hall to reclaim his hostage. Tristan focussed on the bolt, which he'd never attempted to move before.
Come on
… He strained to concentrate. He didn't need to have it fully across; just the slightest movement would secure Karita's safety.
Merciful masters, forgive this fool a century of disdain and grant me the strength to save her.

Preston grabbed the doorknob and heard the bolt lock into place. ‘Damn you, de Scott!' The art collector tugged at the heavy wooden door but it would not give. ‘Well, I have what I came for. You can keep the girl … for all the good it will do you. You, my friend, are dead! Best leave the womanising and treasure hunting to those of us still living.'

Tristan followed the irate American to the front door and watched him descend the front stairs and climb into his huge automobile. The entity sighed with relief as he watched the car drive away, then bowed his head in prayer.
Thank you.