Luna-Sea

by Jessica Sherry

  The Haunted Bookstore party drew the biggest crowds of all. The tourists and vendors that had flocked into town for the Octoberfest celebration tomorrow enjoyed the ghostly nightlife, coming to the party in makeshift ghost costumes. Sheets, toilet paper, hospital gauze were all used in costume making, giving the party a fun, recycled look.

  Now that we were well rehearsed in the art of dressing up, Henry and I put ourselves together easily. Painted white faces. Dark liner around the eyes. Dark and dusty suit for him. My hippie-Victorian dress for me.

  The store looked amazing. Chris and I had taken old (but clean) Peacock sheets and transformed them into ghosts across my tall ceilings and along the balcony. We’d set up a book display highlighting great ghost stories: A Christmas Carol, Hamlet, The Haunting of Hill House, The Turn of the Screw, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and a myriad of modern tales and collections. We capped off the decorations with ravens from Poe’s party, and dead and dried black roses (that I’d thankfully taken and hung upside down to preserve). It looked like a dark heaven.

  The finger foods were delightful and delicious, thanks to Mike who had yet to grow weary of helping. Strawberries dipped in white chocolate and decorated with ghost faces. Hard-boiled egg ghosts. Ghost shaped meringues and truffles. Cucumber sandwiches and a variety of cheeses cut into ghost shapes. Mike had outdone himself again.

  But, it wasn’t the easiest party to get through. While everything was just as perfect as the Frankenstein Fright Night, I wasn’t myself. With a nearly full moon adorning a clear sky overhead, patrons spread out. I dashed between the rooftop and the store, back and forth, trying to make sure everything was going well and I couldn’t keep an eye on everything. There were more guests than usual, many faces I didn’t know, and with the costumes, it was hard to identify even the ones I did know. And with so many heads covered in sheets, I became uneasy. Plus, Sam was working, leaving me without my anchor.

  The party forced me into a constant state of panic.

  The distraction of chatting with people, specifically my relatives – Grandma Betty, Mamma Rose, Rachel and Raina – provided some relief. But, there were a few times when all I could do was slip out the back door by the dumpster and under the stairs, take a few deep breaths and try to stop my hands from shaking.

  The first time, Chris noticed, and upon my return asked if I was okay. I quickly smiled, told him I was, and made some remarks about how awesome the party was going. The fourth time was during Henry’s reading of a selection from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, when the crowd had gathered round the store and his voice incited a hypnotic peace. I opened the exit door, wedged a book into its automatic lock, and crouched down on the concrete landing, hidden by darkness, a dumpster, and the wooden planks of the stairs.

  The party would end soon, I reminded myself. Henry’s reading typically inspired purchases and then the party would soon fade, hopefully leaving Henry and me with stacks of counting to do. I started to calm down.

  Footsteps and a loud clank – like the shutting of a door – brought me out of my peace. Someone hocked a loogie on the other side of the dumpster, and a moment later, a flick and the smell of cigarette smoke filled the air. I froze.

  “Glad that shit’s done,” a male voice said, blowing out a sigh.

  There was no audible response, but I heard the shuffling of feet.

  “Can’t wait for tomorrow,” another voice returned, surprisingly loud.

  They both chuckled. “Candy ain’t never been so sweet.” Laughter filled the alley. The two headed passed the dumpster and around the corner right in front of me. They wore sheets over their heads, with holes for their eyes and mouths, but I didn’t need to see their faces. Ricky Wakefield and his friend J.J. I was certain of it. I stayed still as a statue, praying they wouldn’t see me there. My heart thudded and hands shook uncontrollably. The two rounded the corner of Beach Read, out of sight. Though my panic hadn’t abated, I slipped back into the party.

  Henry was still reading, audience riveted. My re-emergence captured the attention of Willie, of course, who’d camped out behind the counter, and Chris, who glanced up from his phone to see me come back in. I took a page from Willie’s book, and perched on the barstool behind the counter, trying to hide my hands. Calm down. Breathe. Maybe I should call Sam.

  There was no time to think. As predicted, Henry finished and a solid line formed at the counter, keeping me very busy. The next hour passed this way, and slowly the crowd fizzled out.

  Even though they’d been wearing sheets, I hadn’t noticed Ricky Wakefield and his friend in the store all night, but the ghost costumes could have kept them hidden. Likewise, I hadn’t noticed David Love until he came to the counter with two books to buy. He was dressed in his normal work garb – a Love Rentals t-shirt, shorts, flip flops. He smiled timidly at me, and I gave him a half-smile.

  “So, is the verdict in yet?” he asked. “Will TIBA get their money?”

  I grinned, trying desperately to swallow my unease. While a success, this party wasn’t one of my better ideas. “Looks like TIBA’s not going to get their donation after all, I’m happy to say.”

  “Good,” David Love replied. “If you give a child everything she wants, she’s libel to become quite spoiled.” He laughed, and I couldn’t help but to smile at the comparison. “When I first opened Love Rentals, your aunts raised a tizzy about me rentin’ Segways and dune buggies.”

  “Why?”

  “Said they were tacky,” he returned.

  “Sounds like them.”

  “I won that battle,” he said, handing me his credit card, “and I’m glad that you’ve won yours.”

  “I appreciate that,” I replied, and asked, “Mr. Love-”

  “Call me Dave.”

  “Dave, you were a guest at the Peacock party-” He stopped my question with an embarrassed laugh.

  He chuckled. “Made a dang fool outta myself.”

  “Well, you have your reasons,” I allowed. “I was just wondering if you saw anything unusual when you left, perhaps in the parking lot or the outside of the house?”

  It was a long shot, I knew, but I had to try, especially since he was here and being so talkative, unlike the last time we talked. He shook his head. “Naw, and I couldn’t have. Kayne and his goon followed me out there and taught me a well-deserved lesson about what happens when you drink too much and cause scenes at parties.”

  I cast him a confused look. “What happens?”

  “You get your ass kicked,” he laughed.

  A light bulb went off in my head when I remembered what Delores Kenning had described at the Peacock party. “Were you shoved in a trunk?”

  “Think so. I was outta my mind that night and many nights since, but it’s no excuse for actin’ like that. It’s just… well, Lucius Kayne really screwed me.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Ricky took responsibility for the fire in my wife’s lab, but the school still tried to sue her for damages. By the time Kayne was done with them, they ended up handing her a check.” Love stopped to chuckle at the irony. His face fell again. “So, after my wife died during her hospital stay, it made perfect sense for me to hire Kayne in a malpractice suit. I wanted to secure a nest egg for our daughter. Was the least I could do, right? It’s what she would’ve wanted. The case was strong, but for some reason when we were close to winning, I got duped into signing a negligible settlement, pennies compared to what I was owed.”

  “How’d he dupe you?”

  “Same way I always get into trouble,” he shrugged, “got me drunk.”

  “For someone who’s been through so much, you certainly have a good attitude about it,” I noted, stuffing his books into a bag and handing him a receipt.

  He shrugged again. “Helps when I don’t drink and when I keep things in perspective. Battles against your aunts, TIBA, these can be won. Battles against the Kaynes can’t.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I returned weakly. “Depends on your a
rsenal.”

  Dave smiled. “I ain’t so angry ‘bout it anymore. Kayne and I… well, we’ve come to an understanding. I’ll see you ‘round the neighborhood.” Dave winked, grabbed his bag, and made way for the next customer.

  The store cleared out, leaving Henry, Willie and I with cleaning up and counting the till. Though I was relieved the party was over and my future in Tipee (at least for now) was secured, my mind spun. I should be celebrating, but instead, I was fretting.

  Ricky Wakefield and J.J. Lucas had been here, right under my nose. Why were they here? Had my worst fears been realized? If Ricky was my attacker, was he here getting his secret kicks? My parties had given criminals freedom to walk in and out of my life.

  On top of those fears, I thought about Dave. His information proved something I didn’t expect. If he told the truth, then Wake and Lucius Kayne, who’d so mysteriously vanished from the party right before the girl went missing, were busy. They couldn’t have had anything to do with the woman because they were in the parking lot with David Love, teaching him a lesson mafia-style. And for that matter, David Love had an alibi now, too. In her crazy way, Delores Kenning verified his story. The demons she saw stuffing a body in a trunk could have been Kayne and Wake taking care of Love.

  My scattered brain forced me to count the till three times before finally satisfied that I’d done it correctly. I took the money and paperwork into the back office to enter it all into the computer and lock it away.

  That’s when I found the picture.

  It happened just the way, I’m sure, the deviant had intended. I’d come around my desk, sat in my chair, and then looked up. I jumped and stifled a scream.

  Taped to my computer screen was a picture of me. I snatched it down, after I caught my breath, and stared at it, all the frightening moments of my attack tidal waving down on me. An enlarged shot of my face, knife pressed to my neck, tears streaming out of my eyes, an expression ripped with fear, and unbelievably, daring. Do it, I’d angrily thought. Do it.

  Ghosts were real, after all, and they wanted to play.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Cachalot

  The sperm whale, also known as the cachalot, is the largest toothed, largest brained whale and makes the deepest dives of any mammal. Those deep dives enable it to catch-a-lot of giant squid, it’s favorite food. Another uniqueness about the sperm whale is its production of a treasure called ambergris. Like an oyster, when undesirable objects enter its digestive system, the sperm whale protects itself by covering the unwanted with a hard, waxy substance, to ease its passing. The whale then purges the ambergris into the sea. At first, the ambergris is just as disgusting as one might think, with a dung-like odor. But, over time, the purged remains change, become sweet smelling, and when found are worth a lot of money. Ambergris, sperm whale waste, is a sought-after ingredient in perfume and rumored to be like catnip for mermaids, if you buy into the mythology.

  What I’d caught, I didn’t know how to handle and I was choking on it.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, madam,” Henry teased as he came to the office door. “Everything alright?”

  “Fine. Keep Willie for me. I have to go.” I ripped the picture off the computer, folded it, slammed the screen shut, and made a mad dash to the back door.

  The cool air did nothing for me. I raced up the stairs, nearly panting, and dropped my keys three times before getting the door open. Sweat beaded up on my forehead. I clicked the lock back into place before tumbling down to the floor in tears. My attacker had been there and I was still a target.

  Deep breaths. Ignore the pain. It’s not real. My brain spewed with words and images, battling against each other. I tried to regain reason, telling myself that I was safe, that the picture was meant to upset me, and I couldn’t let it. But, telling oneself to be calm was just about as effective as telling a child to behave. Saying the words didn’t make it happen.

  For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

  I left the picture with my journal on the kitchen counter, and trudged to bed. The verse repeated over and over in my head – I forced it to, cutting through all the darkness. The sharp pangs of panic were giving way, slowly, as I lay there, managing my thoughts. And it was all I could do. With pains jutting through my chest, hands shaking, sweating. I couldn’t make a phone call or try to do anything, but lay there. Calm down. Breathe. Focus.

  For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

  My panic prison eventually succumbed to my determination and my exhaustion. I fell asleep. But, drifting into dark dreams just gave my panic another playground. Over and over the man came at me. He had red demon eyes, and as he took me, black water rose around me. I was doubly dying.

  And somewhere, Mavis Chambers was screeching, encouraging him. I’m not done with you yet, you bitch! I can’t wait to slit your throat, you whore!

  The knife pressed firmly against my neck. I couldn’t breathe. One pain away from lunacy. One pain. Blood and sand and water created a hue and I woke up screaming.

  I grabbed onto Sam’s old life jacket – a gift he’d tried to give me when we were teenagers. The gasping turned to heavy breathing and slowed back to normal. I wiped my sweat on the sheets, rose from the bed, still trembling, and shed my damp clothes (I was still wearing my ghost-wear from the party). I pulled on whatever was on top of my heap of clothes – a gray camisole top and shorts. Two guzzled glasses of water later, and I sat down at my kitchen table.

  For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

  I grabbed the journal, and started writing.

  Hours later as the sun peeked through my windows, the doorknob turned and wiggled. A knock followed, three short raps. I got up from the table and opened the door for Sam.

  “You locked your door,” he smiled, but his face fell when he eyed me. “What’s wrong?”

  I handed him the journal from the table, no longer worried about what he might think of me. I needed him. The picture was stuck in the page where I’d written about it. He took the book and nodded.

  “Sam, this is everything I know, everything that’s happened,” I warned him. “Maybe you can take all this crap and turn it into something good.”

  I left him to it and took a shower, ridding myself of the sweat and anxiety of the last ten hours. I made an in-shower proclamation, that I’d stop making excuses and get in touch with Dr. Dey. I’d made the call a couple of times, under Sam’s gentle prodding, but had stubbornly refused to leave a message. Sam would help me with my outer life. I had to get a handle on my inner one, and that meant succumbing to the stigma of seeing a shrink. Ugh, my Duffy relatives will have a field day with this, but so be it.

  I stepped out of the bathroom feeling more refreshed and resigned than normal. Sam sat at the kitchen table, reading through the pages and making notes into his cop’s notepad. “It was worse than you said,” he muttered and then added, “Everything’s worse than you said.”

  I swept by him and to my dresser. I yanked on some clothes. “Please, don’t be mad. I didn’t keep things from you because I – I wanted to hurt you. I kept things from you because I wanted to keep them from myself.”

  “I’m not mad,” he said. I stepped next to him, my hair leaving drip marks through the kitchen. “Not at you anyway. Are you okay?”

  I nodded. I plopped down in the chair next to him.

  “Can I take this with me?” He pulled the journal close to himself. “I know it was hard to write all this down, but it helps. I want to look into a few things.”

  I nodded again.

  He took a long, last sip of his coffee. “It’s Octoberfest,” he announced with a huff, “and we’re going to be busy. Please, keep a low profile today and if anything, and I mean anything, should happen, give me a call right away, even if it’s as simple as a bad feeling, okay?”

  “Okay.”

 
He rose from the table, and turned to go. But, upon rethinking it, he added, “Please, Delilah. Low profile.”

  “Got it. All I plan to do today is sell books,” I assured him.

  “Good,” he said. He stepped over to me, reached out his hand, and pulled me to my feet. He held me close, in spite of his belt and vest and all the cumbersome accessories that went along with his job. A few tender kisses later, he said, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I prefer Mrs. Delilah Teague,” Sam grinned widely, “but you can keep the Duffy, if you insist.” This time, I flushed with embarrassment. I gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

  “I was just doodling,” I huffed out.

  Sam laughed as he went for the door. “I’ll call you soon.”

  The ambergris came to mind again, and I hoped he’d be able to turn the rest of my hell into some kind of treasure.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Pearls

  In The Merry Wives of Windsor, Shakespeare penned “Why then the world’s mine oyster,” a line that referenced the obtaining of wealth. Over time, the saying “the world is your oyster” evolved into the sappy cliché one hears at graduations or weddings, indicating that the world is yours for the taking, for you to discover your pearl or treasure. But the phrase originally had a menacing connotation. The complete line is “Why then the world’s mine oyster which I with a sword will open.”

  Statistically and literally speaking, he’d have to use his sword on thousands of oysters before he actually found a pearl of any value, as they are rarer than one might think glancing around a jewelry store. To obtain one natural pearl, one would have to carefully sword open 20,000 oysters, making the cliché a little less promising.