Missing in Michigan: A Paranormal Mystery (Alexa Bentley Paranormal Mysteries Book 1)

by April A. Taylor

  I do as he suggests. He drives the short distance to the police station as I wrack my brains trying to figure out who might be mad at me for some reason. Then it hits me – Leslie is the most obvious suspect. I don’t want to believe she’d do such a thing, but it’s theoretically possible. I’ll need to be more careful around her moving forward.

  A welcome blast of heat threatens to melt my face off as we enter the City Hall and Police Station building. Sally’s seat is vacant.

  “Is Sally out to lunch?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. She’s on vacation. She takes two weeks off every year in November and goes down to Florida to visit family. I believe she flew out last night. Lucky, eh? She gets to enjoy some fun in the sun, and all I get is yet another postcard to add to my collection.”

  I’m stunned she didn’t mention this the last time we spoke. Then again, it’s not like we’re close friends.

  “Sounds lovely,” I say, which is how I know most people would reply. The truth, though? Nothing against Floridians – I know a few, and they are lovely people – but every time I go there I deal with ornery ghosts, bugs the size of my head, and temperatures so hot I constantly battle sweat dripping into my cleavage. The idea of going there on vacation gets a hard pass from me. As my teenage neighbor would say, ‘sorry, not sorry.’

  The shock of having someone purposefully freeze my locks shut still has my mind turning summersaults. I’ve had enough time contemplating it to realize something else odd happened today; Chad didn’t ask me where I wanted to go, he just drove me to the police station. I wish he would have taken me back to the hotel, instead.

  “Want to get something to eat? There’s a place a couple of doors down that will deliver to us.”

  I’m hungry, so it’s a tempting offer. But as much as I’d like to spend some time with Munising’s gorgeous sheriff, I also want to have some time alone to think.

  “Actually… well, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything, but would it be possible for me to catch a ride back to the hotel?”

  “Ah, I thought you might be wondering why we came here. The hotel’s parking lot is a sheet of ice and will be for at least another hour or so. They’ve put up a barrier blocking entry. Besides, Joel will have your car ready by then, and it will be easier to give you a lift back to your car than to hoof it back and forth to the outskirts of town. Make sense?”

  Yes, it does. So why can’t I relax? I force my lips to do their best imitation of a sincere smile and then sit down. “Well, all right then, what’s for lunch?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Joel called Chad a few minutes ago and we’re on our way to pick up my car. The entire thing took less than an hour, and spending lunch in Chad’s company ended up being a nice distraction. Now I’m zoning out in a carb coma, but I’m fairly certain I can make a ten-minute drive before crashing out altogether.

  With my car unlocked and the engine warming up, I hug Chad goodbye. At the last second, I give his right cheek a quick peck to show my gratitude. “Thank you again, I don’t know what I would have done without you!”

  His swagger returns harder than ever as he saunters back to the police cruiser, and he almost falls again. Chuckling to myself, I drive slowly to the hotel and am relieved to see the barrier is gone and the parking lot has been salted.

  I stagger to my room, yawning the entire way. I can’t wait to take a nice, long nap. When I swipe my electronic keycard, though, it refuses to admit me. I swipe it again several times, but the red light persists in obstinately blinking. “What the hell is wrong with all these locks today?” I say to the empty hallway.

  Grumbling, I plod toward the lobby. The young, dark-haired desk clerk greets me with a warm smile. After I tell him my troubles, he assures me I don’t need to worry. “This happens all the time. It’s usually nothing more than interference caused by a cellphone. Did you happen to keep them together in your purse?”

  “Hmmm… I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  “Well, either way, here you go! This keycard is all charged up and ready to go. Have a great afternoon, Ms. Bentley!”

  His cheerfulness grates on my tired nerves – seriously, who is that chipper about resetting a keycard? – but the entire experience seems worth it when the happy little green light greets me and the door unlocks. Two seconds later, my hopes for a nap are dashed.

  Chapter Nine

  I shriek and the front desk clerk runs my way. “What is...” He doesn’t finish his sentence. My room has been trashed. My small amount of travel provisions has been dumped all over the place, and my tiny notebook computer is smashed into several worthless pieces.

  I turn on the desk clerk. “How could you let something like this happen? You had to have heard it!”

  All the color drains from his face. The only thing left is the nervousness that’s highlighting his features. “I’m sorry, miss. I have no idea how this could have happened. I’ve been at my post all day! Well, wait. I mean, with the exception of when I went out to the parking lot to talk to the deicing truck driver. But I was gone for only a couple of minutes, I swear!”

  I know it probably isn’t his fault, but I can’t keep the anger out of my voice as I issue a stern command. “What are you waiting for? Call the sheriff, dammit.” I fume as he slinks away. This is officially my oddest day in Munising. Is it just a series of unfortunate incidents or am I getting closer to the truth?

  “I tried to stop them,” the ghost says, “but they either couldn’t hear me or didn’t care.”

  Yes! I forgot about my roommate for a minute. I bet he can help me solve this particular mystery.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. But whoever it was wore a green ski mask and bulky clothes. I don’t even know if the person was male or female.”

  The desk clerk returns to my side. “Who are you talking to, miss?”

  The ghost mockingly repeats the man’s questions while waiving its illusory hands in front of the man’s face, but he remains oblivious.

  “What? No one,” I say.

  In a huff, the ghost vanishes while saying, “No one, huh? I’m out.”

  Great. That’s yet another injured ego I’ll need to soothe later. But first, someone needs to pay for this mess. I’ve lost some valuable things, along with any sense of privacy and security the room’s lock once provided.

  Chad arrives with another police officer I haven’t met yet and a crime scene photographer. I’m impressed. In a town this small, I thought I’d be lucky to get one cop taking pictures with their smartphone. Turns out my preconceived notions are wrong for at least the dozenth time during this trip alone. I’ll examine this tendency in myself when this is all over, I promise. For now, I rush to Chad’s side.

  He’s courteous, but in a formal, police officer type of way. If I thought there’d be any comfort in his arms, I’m mistaken again. Crap. This is getting embarrassing. How can I keep messing up so badly?

  I’m hurt, but I try to understand it’s part of his job. I mean, he wouldn’t exactly look professional enough to catch a criminal if he ran into each crime scene looking to hug scared female victims, right?

  This calms me down. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I’m placating myself to let him off the hook. A simple hand on my shoulder or the usual interest in his eyes would make me feel less alone, but he offers neither.

  We go through the few details I can offer four times. Seemingly satisfied, he excuses himself to repeat the same exercise with the front desk clerk and the cleaning staff.

  Meanwhile, I’m stuck trying to figure out what my next move should be. I don’t feel safe here anymore, but there’s nowhere else nearby that’s even somewhat within my budget.

  It seems like forever, but it’s only been about ninety minutes since the break-in was discovered when the police finally clear the room for cleaning. One of the housekeepers helps me set things as right as possible. She eyes me sadly, and I keep getting the impression she wants to say something. No dice, thoug
h.

  The temperature in the room plummets after she leaves, and the sickly metallic odor of blood swirls around my feet. This could only mean one thing; the ghost is back, and he’s brought some of the anger and melancholy that led to his death with him.

  Before he can finish materializing, I launch into damage control mode.

  “Thank you for coming back and thank you for telling me what you saw. You know I don’t think you’re no one, right? I just didn’t want the nosy desk clerk to cause you any problems.”

  “Whatever.” His sullen tone is devoid of the rich flavor to which I’ve grown accustomed.

  “Can we talk?”

  He peers at me through angry, misty eyes and says nothing. Since he didn’t deny me permission to speak, I’m guessing I have a chance to do what I do best. I’ve been so caught up in Mrs. Felton’s mystery and my unusual romantic interests that I failed to see the aching need for ghost therapy in my own room. It’s time to correct this error.

  “I know I haven’t known you for very long, but I do know you’re witty and kind. You’ve made me laugh several times, and you tried to stop the person who smashed up my stuff. Only someone with a good heart does stuff like that.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I don’t have a heart! I don’t have anything anymore! And I’ve been stuck in this ugly, cramped hotel room for more than a year. I don’t know how the hell you’ve stayed here so long.”

  I channel my attentions and energy in his direction. I don’t know how or why but doing this often seems to work in a similar manner to giving an upset human a hug. At first, he tries to resist. Soon, though, he allows me to comfort him.

  “You don’t have to stay here anymore. I can help you leave,” I offer.

  He tilts his spectral head toward me with disbelief. “But isn’t suicide a mortal sin? I figured that’s why I was stuck here. That or maybe God really does hate gay people.” His expression contains enough raw emotion and unexpressed thoughts to fill a complete set of encyclopedias.

  My vision becomes blurry as tears of sorrow leak down my face. “What are you crying for?” he asks.

  I ignore his indignant tone and tell him the truth. “I hate that we live in a world where people like yourself are made to feel so much pain over something you can’t control.”

  “Newsflash, Alex. I don’t live anywhere anymore.”

  This is the type of snarky outburst I’ve grown accustomed to throughout my career as a ghost therapist. It’s not nearly as nice as the unusually kind encounters I’ve had with several ghosts in Munising, but its familiarity brings me some comfort. I know what to do when they’re angry and spiteful. It’s when they’re kind and hopeful that I get tripped up or forget to do my job altogether.

  “Tell me your story. I don’t even know your name. We could start there.”

  The glass on my bedside table smashes to the ground and tosses shards everywhere. I don’t think this is merely his anger, though. I think he’s trying to show me how he died, so I stand patiently and quietly. He has the floor right now, and I want him to know it’s okay to talk.

  A dripping sound echoing in the bathroom catches my attention. I sneak a peek through the open bathroom door and discover my bathtub is overflowing with blood. A few years ago, this would have caused me to shriek and run, thereby ruining the client-therapist relationship. Instead, I continue to do and say nothing.

  “Impressive,” he says, but not in a nice way. I know there’s about to be a whole lot more headed my way. No matter what, I must hold my ground.

  The harsh squeak of a chair being dragged across a tile floor starts at a low volume, but it soon reaches a point where I’m certain my ears are bleeding. I can barely see through the torture, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from retching all over the floor. As if this room needs any other unscheduled remodeling.

  I brace myself against the weight of a noise that hits me like a tornado. My feet slide, but I doggedly keep my arms at my side. I’m pretty sure he won’t toss me against the wall.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I wake up in a crumpled heap on the floor. Yup. I sure guessed wrong on that one, huh? My head is ringing from the collision, but the good news is the shrieking noise is gone. The ghost is hovering above me, and he seems at least somewhat mollified.

  “I’d help you up, but, well, you know…” he says.

  “No worries,” I shake him off with the flick of my wrist. We lock eyes, and I see some contrition. I can also see it wouldn’t take much for him to fly off the handle again, so I need to tread very carefully.

  “I experienced something the other day that taught me a thing or two about preconceived notions. Whether they’re good or bad, they’re usually wrong. I’m sorry people let their preconceived notions get in the way of knowing the real you.”

  I can see the struggle on his face. Part of him wants to trust me, but the other part? Well… it would destroy me, if given half a chance. Like I said before, even the kindest ghosts are harder than their former selves. All I can do now is wait him out and hope he makes the right decision.

  The floor trembles. I’m losing him. It’s time for a Hail Mary pass.

  “I’ve really enjoyed our talks!” It’s not a lie, so saying these words in a sincere, friendly tone is easy. Will he pick up sarcasm or deceit anyway? It all depends on what channel he has his internal tuner set to. Even humans listen to everything through their own radio signal, after all.

  A burst of anger shoots out of his hands and smacks the wall above me. A framed photograph of the Pictured Rocks splinters and slams to the ground, sending shrapnel flying through the room. I inhale sharply as a few choice pieces pierce my flesh. For the first time ever, I find myself wishing I had just gotten splinters instead.

  He sags onto the side of the bathtub. The phantasmal blood flows freely again, but this time, it’s coming from the open wounds on his arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs with downcast eyes.

  “You’re full of so much pain. Please, let me help. What’s your name?”

  His pause turns into a long moment, but he finally relents. “Terrell.”

  “Terrell, I’m really glad to have made your acquaintance. Will you please tell me what happened?”

  His eyes try to spark the fading embers of fury into a new, roaring fire, but they’re unsuccessful. He slips backward into the bathtub.

  “I was in love. His name was Dustin. S… his dad wasn’t okay with it. They had a terrible fight, and he showed up at my doorstep. No one else in town knew about us, at least as far as I know. But what was an interracial, gay, teenage couple going to do? We stayed in the closet.”

  A flicker of surprise crosses my face and sends my eyebrows skyward.

  “I was nineteen when I died. Dustin was seventeen when he came to me that day, but his eighteenth birthday was less than a week away. It’s not like the age difference was weird. At least not for us, anyway.”

  He stops to see if I’m judging him. I’m not. “Of course not. When I was sixteen, my boyfriend was eighteen. People talked then, too,” I say.

  “He asked me to run away with him. I wanted to, I really did. But I couldn’t. I told him we’d never get far anyway. I thought he’d calm down by the morning, so I asked him to stay over. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. I never saw him again. No one saw him again. Or if they did, they never admitted to it.”

  This news is electrifying, but I’m afraid to stop him long enough to ask follow-up questions.

  “When he left, it screwed me up big time. I drank. I did drugs. But none of it helped. A few weeks later, his dad paid me a visit. By the time he left, I had two black eyes and some cracked ribs. I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.

  “He followed me everywhere. Constantly knocking on my door, lighting up my phone, and sending me hate mail. He outed me to the entire town, too, so slurs and graffiti all over my car became regular occurrences. The last
time I spoke to Dustin’s dad, he told me the world would be better off if I killed myself. So, I came here, rented a room, got wasted, and did exactly what he’d suggested.”

  The air between us is heavy, and I notice for the first time that I’m crying. I’ve heard a lot of awful stories in my time as a ghost therapist, and Terrell’s not my first suicide case. But this is by far the most appalling, most tragic thing I’ve heard to date. I wish I could wrap my arms around him to let him see he is accepted. He is worthy of respect and love. Since I can’t, I focus on sending these feelings to him.

  We say nothing for a few minutes. The understandably somber mood rolling off of him is lifting. “Alex… I hid my life by staying in the closet. And in death, I adopted the persona of one of my favorite TV characters. But I was never myself unless I was with Dustin. Don’t make the same mistakes as me, okay?”

  I nod as tears continue to stream down my hot cheeks.

  “And one more thing. Be careful. This town is more dangerous than you know. Don’t trust anyone.”

  “O-okay,” I say. “I’ll miss you.”

  He smiles and slips back into his persona one last time. “And I’ll miss you, girlfriend.” Casting the stereotype aside again, he locks eyes with me. “Actually, there’s two more things. Be careful, and if you somehow happen upon Dustin during all of this, tell him I loved him. I never had the courage to say it when I was alive.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I close my eyes for a few seconds and wipe my tears with my sleeve. By the time I reopen them, he’s gone.

  After everything I’ve been through today, all I want is to decompress by taking a nap, eating some greasy food, and watching television. Before I can do any of that, I have to dig the glass shards out of my skin. My trusty tweezers come to the rescue again.

  With my skin newly freed of glass and some bandages slapped over the worst spots, I trudge to the front desk and report that a framed photo fell off the wall. “Maybe it was hanging loose from the intruder?” I don’t know if the front desk clerk believes this, but he sends the same housekeeper back to the room. She chooses to be mute this time, and doesn’t make eye contact, either. Curious.