This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Kindle Press and my editor, Robin, for bringing this book to fruition.
Thank you, Bill, for your tireless willingness to read this book as it developed as well as for the helpful suggestions and critiques along the way—and for listening whenever I bubbled over with excitement telling you about the latest twist. I’ve learned so much about writing from you and am forever grateful.
Thank you David, Beth, Kadey, Madeline, and Alan for being my first cheerleaders and for encouraging me to carve out the necessary writing time to complete this book. You always believed some day I would be published and encouraged me to keep going on days I wanted to give up.
Thank you to my writing group Betty Ridge, Faith Wiley, and Elton Williams. I’m so glad for your continuing support.
Thank you to my cover designers Maria and Victoria at BeauteBooks for crafting just the cover I wanted. I appreciate your patience and diligence as I figured out exactly what I wanted. I smile every time I look at it.
Prologue
Danielle awoke, the bedroom pitch black. Silent. The glowing numbers on her alarm clock read 1:42 a.m. Her abdomen shook, rumbling slowly at first, then building in intensity like an earthquake. Her unborn baby, once awake, would play for an hour at least, jostling her insides and making sleep impossible. The little guy had no concept of night and day. How could he? She didn’t remember this much nighttime activity during her first pregnancy.
A foot or maybe a fist pressed against the inside of her belly, stretching her skin until she could almost perceive the outline of the tiny appendage. She ran her fingers over it in circles and decided it must be a fist. The little guy jerked away, then gently pressed his fist against her fingers. She pressed back. He jerked away again. When he punched her waiting fingers, she smiled. He seemed very inquisitive already. And playful.
He tired of that game and dug his toes into her rib cage. So, no sleep for a while. Her stomach growled. Cheese and pretzels sounded so good her mouth watered. Or cheese and crackers. Or both. She hefted her weight into a sitting position, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband, Stephen. On the way out of the room, she ran a hand over the crib in the corner, which was all set up and waiting for the baby’s arrival.
She waddled down the hallway, sacroiliac joints aching. She was eager to meet her feisty baby. Her due date was only a few weeks away, and she didn’t have much longer to wait. But these last few weeks had been brutal. He woke up in the middle of the night habitually and was so big and active, she could no longer sleep through his waking times.
And he squeezed her stomach to the point she could eat only small portions before indigestion kicked in. She swung constantly between uncomfortably full and starving.
She paused to check on her sleeping three-year-old, Drew, as she passed his room. He’d been suffering terrible nightmares since they’d moved into this house. She’d thought he would love having his own room. Instead, now that he slept by himself, he cried out most nights, sobbing about not liking “the dark” as she consoled him. She hoped he adapted before the new baby arrived. Two little ones screaming in the night would be exhausting. Reassured to see him sleeping peacefully, she continued to the kitchen.
She opened the refrigerator and removed a block of sharp cheddar, then stood in front of the pantry and deliberated between crackers and pretzels. She grabbed both. After slicing half the block of cheese, she settled at the dining table with her plate of cheddar, the box of crackers, and the bag of pretzels. She stabbed a pretzel stick into a piece of cheese and popped it in her mouth. Delicious. Possibly the best cheddar ever made. Or her pregnancy made it taste that way.
A rustling noise outside interrupted her snack. She stopped crunching and listened. Did she imagine it? Probably just the wind.
She resumed chewing.
There it was again.
She swallowed and sat completely still. Again she heard a sound—a whispery noise she couldn’t identify. She listened intently but heard nothing except the chirping of a single cricket overwintering in the house.
She impaled another bite of cheese with a pretzel and chewed cautiously.
When the plate sat empty, her thoughts turned to peanut butter. But her stomach already churned with early indigestion. She decided water would be a better choice.
She pressed her glass to the refrigerator dispenser and heard something. A different sound.
She froze. No sound assaulted her ears but her own ragged breathing.
Her abdomen tightened, clamping down on her distended belly. She put a hand to her stomach and noticed the baby had stopped moving. He remained still as her muscles continued to contract. When the pain kicked in, she leaned forward and moaned.
She looked at the clock to time both the contraction and the baby’s still episode: 1:57. Even though this was probably only a Braxton-Hicks contraction, she wanted to make certain. She attempted to remember Lamaze breathing. At 1:58 it relented. She stood straight and resumed regular breathing.
Five minutes passed uneventfully. No contractions. No noises. And the baby shifted only once. He seemed to have gone back to sleep. Which sounded like a fantastic idea to her. She turned to leave the kitchen and switched off the lights.
She heard crying in the backyard.
She flipped the lights back on. That was definitely not the wind or her imagination. That sounded like someone needed help.
Heart hammering, she turned to the back door. She heard it again. Closer this time. Scarcely able to breathe, she forced her feet to carry her forward.
Whatever waited in her backyard cried out again. Wailing.
No human could make that sound.
Drew slept just a room away. She had to find out what was out there and make sure it posed no threat to her son.
So why did her feet refuse to move? She waited, hoping the sound would repeat and she could determine the source without looking outside.
A sense of dread enveloped her. She didn’t want to know.
The minutes ticked by. Maybe she should wake her husband. She hated to disturb him. He had to get up and go to work in the morning. She could nap in the afternoon with Drew, but he couldn’t. Besides, what if it turned out she was spooked over nothing?
She moved to
the back door and placed her hand on the knob. Don’t be silly. There’s nothing out there. Just open it and see the backyard is empty and go back to bed.
Another cry. She dropped her hand. She’d heard that sound before, though not for many years.
She pushed aside the curtain and peered out the window.
Nothing.
Then movement.
Something neared the porch a step at a time.
The light spilling from the kitchen and dining room windows cast enough illumination for her to make out the figure. And his familiar features.
She opened her mouth but produced no sound. Her throat constricted. She gulped for air, unable to draw a breath.
The figure reached the porch and stared directly at her. He opened his mouth and wailed again. She screamed.
1
Kimberly Wantland rubbed her temples. “I hate this. I don’t like to say no to any of them.”
Michael Thompson, her director, laughed. “You have it easy. The website receives over a thousand submissions daily. We’ve weeded through the junk and the cranks and the trolls and the guys who just want to hit on you. You only see the good ones.”
She shuffled through the folders. “Any of these would work. The hotel in Eureka Springs . . . the lawyer’s wife in Oklahoma City. I don’t know.”
“It needs to be good. Season finale and all.”
“I know that. I’ve been doing this show for three years.”
Her lead researcher, Elise, weighed in. “Try winnowing them down to your favorites. Any cases we don’t select for the finale, we’ll put on next season’s slate. I’ve researched every one of these. They’re all excellent candidates.”
Kimberly dropped her face into her hands and moaned. “I don’t know. Someone else decide.”
“No can do, sweetie,” Michael said. “You’re co–executive producer now.”
She looked away from the manila folders and watched the rest of her crew, headphoned and staring at monitors, selecting footage from last week’s investigation to send to the production company. Once they finished the episode, they would distribute it to the network.
She never could have predicted her little research project would come so far.
She covered her eyes with one hand and held the other over the file folders, index finger pointed down. “Eeenie, meanie, miney—”
The sound of a crying baby interrupted her. She dropped her hand from her eyes.
The secretary’s voice carried from the lobby. “Ma’am? Ma’am! You can’t go in there.”
A young woman pushed her way into the room, gaze darting over every face until landing on hers. “Ms. Wantland!”
Kimberly jumped from her seat as the woman crossed the room, crying baby cradled in one arm and a toddler in tow.
Michael stepped in front of her. “Can we help you?” He held up a hand to the secretary following the woman.
The woman stopped in the middle of the room, eyes wild. “I just want to talk to Ms. Wantland.”
“About?”
The woman looked around the room. The crew watched warily. “I need your help. Please. I don’t know what else to do.”
Michael moved closer to the woman. “You need our help with a case? You can submit your request online, ma’am. You really shouldn’t come barging in here—”
“I did that! I did apply online. My case wasn’t accepted. And I’ve called and called. No one will let me talk to Ms. Wantland. So I had to come. I drove three hours to get here. Help me. Please.”
Kimberly stepped from behind Michael to get a better look at the woman, whose demeanor relaxed somewhat at the sight of her. The infant continued to cry while the toddler slurped two fingers and stared at her. “What do you need my help with? Tell me about your case, Ms . . . ?”
The woman took two more steps into the room, releasing the toddler and shifting the infant to her shoulder. “Williams. Danielle Williams. I see a ghost. At my house. We moved in while I was pregnant, and everything was great until I started seeing the ghost.”
“That sounds awful. Visible manifestations can be quite alarming. Does the apparition stand over you while you sleep? Does it attempt to communicate? Has it—”
“It’s the ghost of my grandmother’s cat. I’m sure of it.”
Michael groaned. “It’s the ghost-cat lady. Ma’am, I’m sorry. We declined your case because it simply isn’t scary. Just . . . shoo the cat away.”
“A cat?” Kimberly turned to Michael. “We’ve never investigated a disturbance that revolves around the spiritual entity of an animal.”
“For a reason. Because it isn’t that interesting.”
“I disagree. I’m intrigued.”
Danielle stepped closer. “He is scary. Very scary. Please. I haven’t slept in months. Taking care of these two is challenging enough, but now I have a horrifying demon cat waking me up at night, too. It’s ruining my life. My husband is beside himself. He thinks I’m crazy.”
Kimberly shook her head. “That’s terrible. Nothing worse than being called crazy for seeing something others don’t see. Some of us—”
Michael rested a hand on her arm. “You can’t possibly be considering this. We need to focus on an amazeballs finale right now that will blow viewers out of the water and have them psyched for next season. If this was a good option, I would’ve brought it to you.”
“I don’t know what he means,” Danielle said. “All I know is I need your help. Please, Ms. Wantland. My husband says you’re a fraud, but I knew if I could talk to you—if you could see how much we need your help—I knew you’d come. I watch your show every week. You’re the only one who can help me. I don’t know what else to do.”
She crossed her arms. “A fraud, huh?”
“We declined for a reason. Focus on the selected shows—”
“How often do you see the apparition?” she asked.
“Almost every night.”
“Every night, Michael. How often do we have an entity that manifests that regularly? We’re guaranteed activity. That never happens.”
Elise spoke up. “Maybe we could work this into next season?”
Danielle shook her head. “Next season? How long will that take? This has been going on for months. I need help now.”
Kimberly grasped the quartz crystal around her neck and crossed to stand beside the distraught woman. Closing her eyes, she allowed Danielle’s energy to wash over her. Reading the woman’s spiritual spectrum, she detected fear and desperation but also strong compassion and sturdy strength. And hope. The heart chakra radiated stronger than all the others, with flares of the survival chakra, deep red. This woman told the truth. Danielle truly feared for her family’s safety and wanted only help.
Michael was right. This could be a ratings disaster. But this was a good woman and a good mother who feared for her family’s safety. And Kimberly knew the pain and frustration of asking for help only to be laughed at and ostracized.
She opened her eyes. “Okay. We will take your case.” The relief rolling off the woman nearly knocked her over. The one-armed hug, baby squashed between them, did knock her off balance.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Whoa,” Michael said. “You can’t just—”
“You told me to choose, and I have. The ghost cat is now our season finale. Let’s start the case file. Elise, can you take her information?”
“Sure thing.” Elise led Danielle back to the lobby.
Michael crossed his arms. “What was that?”
She returned to her desk and gathered the file folders. “Here. You and Elise can start scheduling these cases for next season’s open slots. I suggest we start in Eureka Springs. The hotel sounds complex. It’s been investigated before, but they want me to come now.”
“Don’t change the subject. You just accepted a case we turned down.”
“A case you turned down. This was the first I heard of it.”
“I get it. That woman twisted your blee
ding heart. But this case isn’t finale material. It’s boring. Probably nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I could feel it. She needs help.”
“I agree she needs help. From a psychiatrist.”
“Michael! Rule one. We never call anyone crazy.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Take the case. But push it to next season. We can bury it during a holiday week.”
“This woman needs help now. You didn’t feel what I felt. This is real. Something is haunting her family.”
“And you just played the sixth-sense card. You know I hate that.”
“Well, now I’m playing the co–executive producer card. Only Randall Hoffmeier can overrule me. And he won’t.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you’re going to back me on this and tell him it’s an amazing case.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I know you miss the old days just like I do. When we first formed APS and no one had heard of Kimberly Wantland. When our only focus was helping people no one else believed. Not ratings and viewers and sponsors and ads and Internet gossip and which talk show wants to interview me. Just . . . helping people.”
Michael blew out a deep breath. “You’re right. I do. But we’re not the Albuquerque Paranormal Society anymore. Now we’re The Wantland Files.”
“We’ll always be APS in my mind.”
“That’s sweet. But I also really love my Manhattan flat and being able to pay my rent.”
“I don’t know why you even keep that place in New York. You’re almost never there.”
“Because I can. And because I want a place to stay when I see Broadway shows. It’s an investment. You know that. What makes no sense is that you stay here in Albuquerque. In the house you grew up in. You could live anywhere.”
“I waited years for that house to come back on the market. And you know why I wanted it.”
“I know, sweetie.”
She squirmed at the pity in his expression. “So. Are we doing this?”
“Looks like we are. A ghost cat for a season finale. I’ll pitch Hoffmeier. And you better deliver.” He reached for his phone, then paused before dialing. “Can I tell him the cat holds a dagger in its mouth? Or speaks Latin backward? Or carries its head in its paws?”
The Wantland Files Page 1