I found that being held by a ghost, alone in the dark, was not at all to my liking. He continued to propel me forward, tugging me toward the desk, though I wasn’t sure why. We both bumped into it, and gripping me by the waist and thigh as I yelped in protest, he unceremoniously dumped me over the counter. I hit the desk, landing on my shoulder and sliding right off where I flopped to the floor.
Upon descent, my legs and feet had managed to drag a stack of paper off the desk before I inadvertently kicked the swivel chair. So as I lay with the wind knocked out of me, prone in the pitch black, I heard the leafy flapping of scattered pages, the chair’s rotation device screeching protest as the seat rocked back and forth, and at last the office door swinging open with an almighty bang as it smashed into the wall.
Chapter 32
Light from the streetlamp filtered in through the open door, feeble, no brighter than a moonlit night. I watched the shadows change on the ceiling, shifting in time with the heavy footsteps. I held my breath as the intruder moved around.
It could be anyone, Ben, a late night traveler come in search of a room to rest, or even the ghost himself. But I doubted it. From his reaction I could guess—Beagban.
I heard a small sound, and imagined it was his shins meeting the coffee table. But no muffled curse followed, not so much as a peep, just footsteps.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Coming closer, then a pause. The seconds ticked by, a minute passed, then two, and still nothing happened. Was he standing over me? Could he see me across the counter? Could he hear my breathing?
So much time seemed to pass that I began to question if he was really there. My hearing wasn’t spot on, maybe he left and I’d missed it. Trying to get a sense with my emotions, I sorted through, but couldn’t feel past the fear. If it was Beagban my efforts would be fruitless; he’d likely feel nothing. I exhaled a long, shaky breath before turning to look. I leaned upward and stretched out my neck to see over the desk.
A patch of black lunged forward. There was a meaty thump as he threw his chest over the counter. I screamed, but no sound escaped as his hands closed over my throat, squeezing tightly. I kicked my legs, scratching at his wrists, but he was unhampered by my struggle.
He pulled me at an awkward angle, my body arched over the counter and desk precariously, my feet barely able to toe the floor. I’d ceased to struggle because it hurt, putting too much weight on my neck. In this position I was at his mercy, and he knew it.
His fingers eased a bit, but remained firm. I could barely take a breath between the coughing and hacking. My eyes welled up and I blinked back tears as I strained to see the man looming over me. From upside down I couldn’t make out more than the outline of his shape and the barest reflection of light glinting off his eyes and teeth.
“Did you enjoy your afternoon with Wallace?” Beagban inquired. His fingers slackened further, allowing me to speak.
The situation felt so surreal. My mind was screaming in chaos and I just couldn’t believe this was happening again. But I could believe it, because I’d expected it, prepared for it. Remembering the ring, I forced myself to stop gripping Beagban’s wrist. It was ineffectual anyway. I couldn’t stop him from strangling me if he wanted to. So I let my hands relax, settling on either side of my head, palms up, seemingly harmless.
Knowing he enjoyed my fear, I stuttered, “Please don’t hurt me.” It was very convincing, but then, I wasn’t really pretending. Meanwhile I tried to reach my thumb over my forefinger, trying to push down the stones. But one-handed I could barely graze the ring at all.
Beagban laughed, low and huffing. “Did he reassure you, tell you it was safe?” He found the idea insulting, growing angrier from his own suggestion. He shook my neck, losing his temper. “Did he tell you I was gone?”
“No,” I blurted while rubbing my fingers together in hopes of turning the ring around. “He said to be careful. That you were dangerous.”
“Afraid of me is he?”
I was so preoccupied trying to pry my ring open that I almost missed the ghost solidifying behind Beagban. The room was hardly more than a black hole, but my eyes had adjusted and I caught the obscure shadowy flash of the ghost’s arm as he struck Beagban in the ear. It was a good solid hit, something I hadn’t expected from the ghost. Apparently neither had Beagban. He looked flabbergasted, a fitting expression for his cartoonish features. Shaking off the dizzies, he turned, searching the space behind him. It was the perfect opportunity and the ghost took it, smashing him in the nose with a disgustingly fleshy crunch.
Beagban crashed to the floor, head swiveling wildly back and forth, searching the darkness, looking, but unable to find his assailant.
I sat up slowly, rubbing the blood back into my neck as I squinted to watch. I knew what freaked him out, and it wasn’t two punches (though they were by no means measly). It was that he hadn’t predicted them.
“Your combat sense won’t help you here,” I said. “You can’t predict the dead.”
My prediction on the other hand was really quite accurate. Beagban was unsettled and afraid. He didn’t say a word, nor even utter a threat. Just scuttled back a few paces, jerked upright, and lurched for the door. I crawled over the counter, coughing and hacking now and again. And only after the door was shut and locked up tight did I peep through the blinds. A black pickup truck roared out of the lot, a bulky tarp spread over the bed.
I wasn’t foolish enough to think all was well. Beagban was concerned with his reputation far more than his employer’s. It would eat at him that he’d run scared, and soon he’d be back. I had just kicked the hornet’s nest, but at least I was alive.
After flipping on the overhead I turned around, inspecting the mess. The ghost hovered in the corner, a shadowy mass. He looked... tired.
“I guess we’ll finish the séance later,” I said, gathering up the candles. That was, if Beagban didn’t kill me first. Packing up the Ouija board and arranging the coffee table didn’t take nearly enough time, and too soon I was out of work to occupy me.
My heart was still pounding away furiously in my chest, the shakes had yet to go, and I felt very close to retching. These Beagban encounters were taking their toll. I was so overwrought I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again.
Chapter 33
At fifteen to five Ben arrived to find me asleep with my head pillowed on my folded arms. I’d taken a break earlier, just long enough for a snack, but before I knew it I was being prodded awake with granola in my hair.
“The door was locked,” Ben said, thumping his keys on the counter.
I winced at the noise, groggily rubbing my eyes as I grumbled a response.
“You locked the office to take a nap!”
“No, the nap was an accident,” I croaked.
“Then what’d you lock the door for?”
“I was scared.”
Now it was his turn to grumble something. I thought I heard Missy’s name, listing her merits no doubt. The first being her ability to complete a night shift.
He puttered around behind the counter, shifting and moving things with excessive force. I took the clamor as my cue to leave.
I was halfway out the door when Ben said, “I don’t want to see you back here until you’re ready to work.”
He wasn’t being choleric, that was just Ben-speak for: I’ll cover your shift if you come in late.
And indeed I did.
It was still dark out when I got home and I had no desire to see the sun rise. But before I crawled into bed I went to see Lucas. He was gone. I followed my routine, checking both doors and the driveway just in case.
His absence didn’t bode well. I couldn’t help but wonder if he even came home last night. This was avoidance at its best, and I was going to have to do something drastic to match it. Something like... I wasn’t sure, maybe write a note? I cringed at the thought—I was shit at expressing myself. Maybe the note could wait a
little longer.
* * *
I woke just before noon. I took a nice long shower, even shaved my legs. And after that I decided I should do some house chores. Living alone in such a small place left little to do. It was too soon for another grocery run and I rarely had other errands. I went to the bank every other week and the post office almost never. But there were always the staple chores: dishes and laundry.
The ghost dog had returned from wherever it was that the thing always disappeared to. I called it Booger, warning that I would hire an exorcist if it ever chewed on my underwear again. The dog hardly listened, flitting around my ankles. I never bothered stepping around, letting my feet sweep through its misty hotdog body. I quickly learned my lesson.
While carting an armload of dirty laundry down the stairs I managed to trip over the little shit. I hadn’t noticed it waiting at the bottom of the stairwell, the pile of clothes obscuring my view. Therefore I made no move to shoo it away or sidestep as the thing turned solid. I didn’t even see it happen, but I felt it. The top of my foot collided with a hairy dog blob and I went sprawling onto the floor, something of a habit as of late.
The little spawn, seeing me prone, seized the opportunity to set its still solid paws on my shoulder, leaning in to sniff my face. The clothes were flung away as I jerked upright, scrubbing my cheek. Had I imagined the dead puppy breath ruffling my hair? Or the sound of wet panting in my ear?
It was all too much. Having a pet ghost was one thing, but tripping over it was another. What next? Was I going to find a puddle of pee on the floor? I shuddered at the thought, remembering all the reasons I didn’t own an animal.
Unwilling to wait for an explanation to present itself, I abandoned the clothes, leaving them scattered on the living room floor. The ghosts were changing, becoming more substantial somehow. I grabbed my car keys, preparing to drive into town and pump Madame Bristow for some answers.
* * *
The weather was pleasant, the sun having long since dried up the rain from last night. The tourists and townies were taking advantage. This put me at a disadvantage as I struggled to find a parking spot, circling around the grid of busy streets in the heart of St. Simons’ village. My usual parking haunts were not an option as my Beagban encounters had left me no longer trusting the tucked away back alleys. Call me paranoid—I’d take it as a compliment.
Eventually I gave up altogether and parked at the Crowne Hotel. It was a long walk to the Parlor, further than I’d intended, but for once the crowded streets would be welcome. And I moved through them as if I expected to be abducted at any moment, avoiding secluded areas and especially white vans. I suppose that was the reason I noticed him, the man.
I couldn’t pinpoint when he’d started to follow me. But as I waited (less than patiently) to use the crosswalk I saw him lurking at a distance, and then again, the same thing at the next crosswalk. That was when I recognized the orange baseball cap, knowing I’d seen it before at the Turtle Center.
I couldn’t recall his appearance from before either, only the baseball cap stood out. Today he was a strange mix of business and casual, wearing a white shirt and blazer, both at odds with his jeans and sneakers.
I dropped my satchel, intentionally of course, making sure its contents spilled out over the sidewalk. Cursing for show, I knelt down, facing backwards to watch him from beneath the fringe of my bangs while I gathered my belongings.
He spun away, giving me his profile as he inspected the fire hydrant as if it was an invaluable antiquity. The distance that separated us was enough to drown out the detail, but I was close enough to know he was just your average joe.
Pale skin and washed out blondish/brownish hair, he was of an average build and height, well, maybe on the short side. Any woman who fell in love with him would easily find him attractive. He had a smooth and even face. But if you were like me, spotting him from afar, you’d think he was ordinary, with no remarkable features to appreciate.
My novel was the last to go back into the bag, Violated by a Viking, or something to that effect. I stood up briskly and continued to walk, keeping a casual pace. I passed a few bicyclists along the way, but mostly families. One man called out, asking if I would mind taking a picture for him. His wife and kids were already posed, just waiting for a helpful passerby. I pretended not to hear and kept on walking.
My feigned indifference was just that—feigned. I was not keen on being followed. My heart was thumping and I really wanted to break away and make a run for it. But who knew what he’d do then? So I played it prudent, unwilling to force his hand. Admittedly, he didn’t frighten me like Beagban did, whose mere presence made me shake in terror. But he worried me all the same.
The Parlor was just ahead. I only needed to cross the street, but I veered off instead, looping the long way around a chain of stores. The second I was around the corner and out of sight I took off running, hardly pausing to cross the intersection. The easel was absent, the Parlor’s front door locked. I banged on the glass with both fists while watching over my shoulder. I only had a minute or so before he rounded the corner and I didn’t want him to see where I’d disappeared to.
Nancy opened the door just then, looking a bit frazzled. I pushed her out of the way as I stumbled inside, slamming the door behind me.
“What’s the matter? Are you alright?” she asked with concern.
Ignoring her questions I peeked out through the blinds, watching as the Average Joe jogged around the corner. He halted, searching the shoppers, but after a moment was visibly disappointed. I sighed with relief, feeling quite crafty.
Nancy peered over my shoulder, curious. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said, dropping the blinds into place with satisfaction. “I was being followed, but I lost him.”
“Are you in trouble?” Her eyes had gone wide. She was worried for me.
I waved vaguely. “I hope you’re not busy, because I really need to talk to you.”
Chapter 34
I turned the bolt and followed Nancy through the creaky, narrow hallway. It was just as dark and dusty as I remembered, the grayish-blue floorboards washing out the already dreary wallpaper. “The crowds are out. Why are you closed?”
She led me around the desk and past the rooms where people received their mystical consultations. “Usually we keep tourist hours,” she answered. “You know, closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. But Eclipsys was feeling poorly this weekend, so I didn’t bother flipping the sign.”
“Something serious?”
“No, just a migraine. She’s feeling better today.” The last door along the hallway opened to a staircase. I climbed after Nancy, noticing here feet were bare beneath her green peasant skirt.
I hadn’t cared where we were going, hadn’t thought about it, but I was surprised to find the second floor was here living quarters. The stairs emptied into a den-like room. It was cluttered with baubles, but homey.
Sunlight flooded in through a large bay window, highlighting the dangling stained glass trinkets. With herbs growing in the sill and silky scarves draped over the lamps, the place had a witchy feel. But unlike the dramatic theatrics of the floor below, this wasn’t done up to fit a client’s preconceived notion of the occult. This was a reflection of Nancy’s personality.
What should have been a dining room was an office turned gym, with a desk pushed against the wall and an elliptical machine hogging up all the space. Eclipsys was on it, her feet and the machine flushed together, spinning in fluid motion.
She didn’t pause when Nancy said, “You remember Adelaide?” but grunted in reply.
“Feeling better?” I asked sarcastically. Watching her exercise, it was hard to believe she’d ever been sick.
Gone was the small but stately astrologer, and in her place was a small and sweaty woman. Her pseudo gypsy/priestess garb was gone, and she wore a pair of gray sweats instead. With her hair tie
d in a ponytail, the black curls made a pom pom that bounced with every step.
Finding her as such left me quite satisfied.
Nancy took the higher road, pretending we were all good friends. “We’ll be in the kitchen,” she said to Eclipsys. “I’ll fix you a drink if you like.”
Eclipsys gave no response and Nancy strode away as if she’d never expected one. Their relationship was odd. They had the familiarity of lovers but none of the affection. Perhaps just a close friendship? But there was a formality there as well, maybe due to their working situation. A friendly professionalism, I mused. Or maybe it was a sisterly attitude because they were related. One of them was obviously adopted then, because when it came to looks, they were polar opposites.
Eclipsys was petite but firm, with wiry musculature. Nancy on the other hand was a large and fleshy woman. Eclipsys was dark and severe with sleek curling black hair. Nancy was a frizzy blonde, disheveled but friendly, her motherly gestures inviting and trustworthy. If Eclipsys was night, then Nancy was day.
I took a seat at the kitchen table and Nancy, the ever thoughtful hostess, asked if I’d like some tea.
“No, do you have soda?”
The answer was no, but I really wasn’t surprised.
She settled herself in the chair across from me. “So, you’re being followed...” she hinted, fishing for an explanation.
“Yes,” I admitted candidly. “But that’s not the reason I came.”
“It’s not?”
“No, I have questions concerning the ghosts. I was hoping you could explain why they’re changing.”
“What do you mean changing?” she asked, eyebrows pinched.
“Do you remember when I asked if that ghost at the motel was broken because he winked in and out?” I waited for her nod and continued. “But he wasn’t broken. All ghosts are like that... sort of struggling and fragile. Or they used to be until recently.”
“What changed?” she asked, perplexed and curious.