Chailali’s Curse

by Anna Leigh Keaton

  “Thank you, Hank,” Mike said as he sat up straight. “It smells wonderful. Been too long since I had one of these.”

  “You just holler if you need anything else,” Hank said, pulling bottles of condiments from his bar apron and setting them on the table.

  Christy watched Mike as he felt the edge of his plate then grabbed a French fry and stuck it in his mouth.

  “Mmm. Thanks, Hank. We will.”

  Hank smiled at Christy then turned to go back inside.

  Christy picked the top bun off the burger and squirted ketchup and mustard on it. She’d keep her feelings to herself for a while. This relationship was too important to do anything to put it in jeopardy. She’d wait until he revealed more of himself, of his feelings. Then maybe she’d find the courage.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Mmm. This is good,” Christy said.

  Mike nodded in agreement and chewed a healthy bite of his juicy burger. Once he swallowed, he said, “Gourmet.”

  Christy chuckled, a sound he’d grown to love. “Yes. It is about the best burger I’ve ever had.”

  Trying to push back the disappointment that weighed down on him because she hadn’t responded to his question about her living in a small town, he forced a grin and reached for the shake. He hadn’t had a milkshake since before the crash, and the sweet, fruity flavor made him sigh.

  He held the icy glass out to her. “Try this, hon.”

  She took the shake from his hand, and then she moaned. “Oh. Man. That’s so good.”

  He went back to his French fries. Why would he think they had a future? They’d known each other only a couple of weeks, been together for less than twenty-four hours. But the thought of her not in his life—of her going back to L.A. and never returning—ripped his gut out.

  He wanted to tuck her away and never let her leave his house. Hold her hostage. Tie her to his bed so she couldn’t get away.

  What did Moonlight Cove have to offer her, though? She would get past her anxiety eventually—he didn’t doubt that—but then what? She was a chef and restaurant manager. Only one restaurant existed in the Cove, and they were sitting on its patio now. Hank might need a cook at some point—Mike had no idea if the town was any busier now than it had been ten years ago—but grilling burgers and dipping fish wasn’t much of a challenge for a woman trained at an exclusive culinary school.

  “What are you thinking?” Christy asked. “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

  He lifted his burger between his hands. “Just enjoying the meal,” he said then took a bite.

  No way could he tell her his thoughts. He wasn’t some needy sap. He’d been alone for a decade—had decided he’d be that way the rest of his life until Christy came along.

  “Ohh,” she said on a sigh, almost the same way she had when she’d been coming as he thrust inside her tight, slick body.

  Mike’s cock twitched, more than ready for another round of sex with her.

  “I wonder if Hank would give up his recipe for this malt.”

  Mike chuckled. “He makes the ice cream himself using fresh Baker’s Dairy milk. The cherries are handpicked by his wife every year. No secret.”

  “And where does the beef come from for these burgers? I know fresh meat, and this is about as fresh as it gets.”

  “From a ranch down by Coos Bay. He—”

  A loud sound pierced the air, and Christy screamed.

  Mike’s heart shot up to his throat at the same time he heard a thud against the wooden floorboards of the patio.

  “Christy?” He dropped his burger and reached for her, but she wasn’t in her chair.

  He heard a scuttling sound moving away from him against the floorboards.

  “Christy? Honey...”

  With the cars driving by on the street, he couldn’t hear her, though he strained for some sound.

  A car motor turned over a few times, as if it was having problems, and then the loud bang echoed through the buildings again.

  Christy screamed again; she was off to his left. The backfire of a car, he realized. Shit.

  Pushing his chair back, he grabbed his cane and headed in the direction from which her terror-filled scream had come. “Christy, honey.” He bumped into the outside wall of the pub and then felt his way along. “Christy.”

  Then he heard her. Heavy breathing, whimpers, sobs. Fuck. He went down on his hands and knees and moved closer to her. When he was close enough that he bumped her denim-clad leg with his hand, she shrieked and kicked out, catching him in the center of his chest.

  He fell back against the wall with a thud and tried to catch his breath, even as Christy’s tortured sobs ripped at his soul. “Christy, honey,” he gasped as he moved back toward her.

  “No,” she shouted when he touched her, but he blocked her thrashing leg this time and sprawled over them so she couldn’t disable him.

  “It’s me, Christy. Mike. You’re safe.” Turning, he wrapped his arms around her upper body, pinning her arms against her sides. “Don’t fight me, babe. Don’t fight,” he begged, trying to keep his voice low.

  Holy shit, what was he supposed to do now?

  Christy’s pants were harsh and wheezy, as if she were having an asthma attack. Her heartbeat thudded in a wild tattoo against her chest. “Come on, honey. Come back to me. You know you’re safe with me. It was just a car. Just a car.”

  The door crashed open, making her yelp.

  “What the hell is going on out here?”

  Big, beefy hands closed around Mike’s upper arms, ripping him away from Christy. She screamed again.

  “Get her purse,” Mike shouted as he twisted out of Hank’s grasp and sank back to his knees. “Get her purse. Now, for Christ’s sake.”

  Hank released him and, a second later, he returned and stuffed Christy’s purse into his hands. Mike found a zipper, jerked it open, then reached inside. It was full of...women shit.

  He held it out toward Hank’s silhouette. “There’s a bottle of pills in here somewhere. She needs them.”

  He heard the rattle of pills.

  “How many?” Hank asked.

  “Two.” God, he knew she hated them, but...

  Hank pressed the pills into his palm, and he turned toward Christy. “Honey. Listen. I have your pills.” He edged closer to her and thankfully, this time when he touched her, she didn’t lash out, but she did whimper as if still terrified.

  “Take these, baby. Please. Take them.” He lifted them to her mouth, and she opened for him. After he placed them on her tongue, he felt a cold glass press against his hand. Hank had brought it.

  Mike took the glass, held it to Christy’s lips, and heard her gulp. “That’s it, honey. That’s it.”

  She burst out in noisy sobs and launched herself into his arms, knocking the glass from his hand and nearly strangling him. Her body shook with a violence he couldn’t comprehend, her heartbeat so hard against him he thought it would burst from her chest.

  He smoothed his hand down her back and whispered soft shushing sounds in her ear. “You’re okay. Just a damn car backfiring.”

  “Do you need something?” Hank asked.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “Can you give us a lift home?” No way would Christy make it up the road. If the pills went to work as they had last time, she’d be out cold in a matter of minutes.

  “I’ll call Sheryl to bring the truck.”

  Hank only lived a couple of blocks away, so he walked to work—or at least that was the way it had been a decade ago.

  “Thank you.” Mike turned his face into Christy’s hair and rocked her like a child. He doubted he’d ever felt quite so impotent as he did at this moment. He’d forced her into this trip to town, and now look at her. He’d probably set her recovery back exponentially. And what could he do? He was useless to her.

  Fuck. He was such a loser.

  * * * * *

  Chailali heard the front door open, and she glided down the hallway from her window seat in Mike�
��s office—her favorite place to sit and watch the ocean far below. When she saw the strange man carrying Christy, the woman’s body limp, fear spiked through her.

  “Bedroom on the left,” Mike said, coming in behind the man.

  Chailali watched the man gently place Christy on Mike’s bed. “Is she going to be all right?” he asked as he stared down at Christy’s wilted body splayed on the bed.

  Mike limped into the room, dropped some plastic bags and Christy’s little purse on the floor, then sat down on the bed next to her. “I think so.” He swiped his hand down his face and gave a weary sigh. “God, I hope so.”

  The big, white-haired man laid a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “If you need anything, you just call me or Ryan, okay?”

  Mike nodded. “Thanks, Hank. Thanks for...everything.”

  The man named Hank patted Mike’s shoulder before moving toward the door. “I mean it. If there’s anything we can do...”

  Mike nodded again. “I don’t know what can help her. I thought...” He trailed off with a shake of his head.

  “Do you need anything?” Hank asked.

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “I’ll let myself out then.”

  Chailali moved around the other side of the bed and sat down next to Christy. Her breathing was deep and heavy, as if she were asleep. But this wasn’t a normal slumber. Something bad had happened, and Chailali worried it had been another panic.

  Mike sat opposite her, running his hands over his cane, his head bowed and shoulders hunched.

  “Oh, no,” Chailali whispered. This wasn’t good. Mike had that look about him. Depression and sadness. She’d seen him in this state many times over the years. He blamed himself for something. He was hurting, and she’d bet guilt was eating away at him. Chailali looked back at Christy. Guilt over whatever happened to his newfound love.

  “No. No, you’re not going to do this, Mike,” she said. “You’re not going to blame yourself for whatever happened. You can’t. Christy needs you. You need her. You need her!”

  Of course, he didn’t respond to her plea. He couldn’t hear her. Only Christy could. She turned back to Christy. “Come on, wake up.” What she wouldn’t give for a corporeal body so she could shake the woman. “Christy!”

  Christy moaned and rolled to her side toward Mike. Mike jerked around as if he thought he could see Christy, but of course, he couldn’t. He carefully propped his cane against the nightstand then reached out for Christy, touching her shoulder, then her side. He ran his hand down her leg to her ankle, slipped off one of her shoes then the other. A bit of sand fell onto the bed, and that’s when Chailali realized there was no sheet on it.

  Frowning, she wondered why the sheet was missing, but then Mike stretched out next to Christy and wound his arms around her, pulling her limp body against his chest. He gently palmed the hair away from her face then kissed her forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  What had he done?

  And then Chailali’s heart broke when Mike shut his eye and a single tear slipped down his cheek.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Chailali wanted to shout at him to tell her what happened. She should have followed them into town. She shouldn’t have thought...

  As much as she tried to help the living find their happiness, sometimes it was impossible. She’d been so sure when Christy came into the house that she was the one to end Mike’s self-imposed exile. To make him smile again the way he had before his wife died. He’d once been such a wonderfully happy, carefree man.

  Because of the warmth and love in this house, she’d stayed around to observe. She wanted to find ways—things—that would help other couples become as content as Mike and Caryn had been. But then it all ended one rainy night.

  Mike had opened old wounds so deeply buried inside him, and Christy had held him, helped heal him. Chailali been so sure everything would be all right.

  But now...

  Seeing Mike’s pain ripped something inside her soul. He apologized to Christy—for what she couldn’t fathom. But she suspected—no, she knew—that whatever had happened while they were away from the house, Mike blamed himself. This time, she wondered if he’d be able to move past whatever guilt he piled upon himself.

  “Christy,” she said. “Wake up and talk to him. Please. I’m begging you.”

  Christy didn’t make a sound, not a single move.

  Mike’s hand coasted over Christy’s back, her side, her arm. He kissed her forehead again. And then, to Chailali’s utter dismay, he moved away, pulled the blanket up over her, picked up his cane, then limped from the room.

  “Christy!” she shouted.

  But even Christy couldn’t hear her now.

  * * * * *

  The room was dark, the house silent, when Christy awoke. Her tongue had the consistency of cotton, and her head throbbed behind her right eye. She groaned and stretched, then rolled to the side to look at the clock.

  10:06. But the digital readout was red, and the one in her bedroom was green. She rolled onto her back and stared up. There were no posts on the bed. She was in Mike’s room, she realized finally, the thought coming through her fogged brain.

  For a long moment, she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there. The last thing she remembered was eating a burger.

  And then the memory hit, and she covered her face with her hands and groaned.

  But still, how had she gotten in this bed? She remembered hearing the gunshot. And then...what? She had a vague recollection of Mike giving her pills and holding her, but how had they gotten home? Surely Mike couldn’t have carried her. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have been able to find his way back to the house alone. And with his leg...

  She rolled to the side of the bed and slowly sat up. The movement made her head worse, but she needed to find Mike, to make sure he was okay. She stumbled to the door and turned the knob.

  Oh, good. You’re awake.

  Christy groaned. “Leave me alone.” The last thing she needed right now was the voice yakking at her.

  Mike’s in the exercise room. You really must speak with him. What happened while you were away? Why is he blaming himself?

  Christy leaned her forehead against the doorjamb. The voice was not in her head. She couldn’t pretend any longer that it was. Great, a haunted house. Hadn’t she thought this place was the perfect setting for a horror movie when she arrived?

  “Who are you?”

  I am Chailali. Daughter of the Chief Dai’ Co Shu of the Melukitz Tribe. Thank you for asking.

  Christy made a face and pressed her fingers against her closed eyelids, praying the throbbing would end soon. “You’re the daughter of a chief of a tribe of Indians?”

  Yes. I am. Or was. I’ve been dead for over two hundred years.

  “Right.” She’d completely lost it now. Not only was she imagining a voice that may or may not be a ghost, but that voice had a whole family history. Pushing away from the doorframe, she glanced across the hall into Mike’s office, but it was empty. All the lights toward the living room and kitchen were off, so she headed for the stairs to see if he actually was in the weight room. And if he was, what did that mean about the chief’s daughter?

  “Mike?” she called as she reached the second floor landing. She was not about to entertain the idea that this Chail person was real. She’d rather have voices in her head than ghosts wandering around the house.

  She heard the sound of the weights being set on the floor as she headed down the hall. “I’m here,” Mike said.

  Thank God. She rounded the corner into the room and went to him where he sat on the weight bench. Wrapping her arms around his bare shoulders, she buried her face in his hair and breathed in his dark, soothing scent. His skin was warm, slightly damp from his workout. She’d never felt anything better.

  “What happened today? I can’t remember anything after I heard the gunshot. Was anyone hurt? Who was doing the shooting?”


  Mike splayed his hands on her hips and gently nudged her away from him. “They weren’t gunshots. It was a car backfiring in the parking lot across the street.”

  Oh. She sank down on the bench next to him. A car backfiring. She groaned and covered her face. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

  “No. You’re not. You were scared. And I should have never forced you to go into town.”

  When she lowered her hands and looked at him, he was gripping a towel between his hands, twisting it so hard his knuckles turned white, his face turned away from her.

  “You didn’t force me to go to town,” she said slowly, her stomach churning with what could probably be called fear. She didn’t like the way he was acting. Not at all.

  “Yes, I did.” He turned toward her, and the lines around his down-turned mouth, around his eyes, seemed etched deeper than she’d ever seen them. “I forced you to go, and for what? To get some goddamn rubbers so I could have sex with you?”

  “You didn’t cause my anxiety attack. The noise did. Why are you blaming yourself?” The ghost’s words came back to her then, and she caught her breath. That woman had known he was blaming himself. She’d warned Christy.

  “Because if I hadn’t been so insistent, you wouldn’t have been there, and none of this would have happened.” He stood up and gripped the bench press bar as he moved away from her. “Because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants, I sent you into another anxiety attack.”

  Christy opened her mouth, but no sound came out. His anger—at himself—was palpable. It rolled off him in waves.

  “Are you saying that...it wasn’t worth it?” That her having an anxiety attack put him off? How bad had it been? What had she done?

  He lifted his hand and scrubbed it down his face, and that’s when she saw the bruise on his chest. Oh, no. What had she done to him? She stood up and went to him, caught his hand, and pulled it away so she could examine the purple mark over his breastbone.