The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts)

by Steffanie Holmes

  I longed to lurch myself into the hallway after her, to speak with her, to try again to convince her I wasn’t this evil person. But another part of me, the part that had spent too much of his life chasing after the approval of others, hated Elinor for betraying me like this. She hadn’t even wanted to listen to me, she just automatically jumped to a conclusion. The wrong conclusion. Why should I have to convince her of anything? Shouldn’t she know me well enough by now?

  I watched Elinor crash against the bedroom door. It fell open and she sprawled across the floor, again exploding into uncontrollable giggles.

  “Eric,” she hiccupped. “You’re still here?”

  “Of course I’m still here. I can’t exactly go anywhere,” I said.

  “I … drink … I am drink …”

  “Yes, you’re very drunk. And I can’t help you into the shower, I’m sorry.” I tested my fingers on the door. They bounced slightly against the wood, but fell through.

  “... s OK …” Elinor stumbled to her feet, steadying herself against the wall and staring at me with sparkling eyes. “I can manage.”

  But she couldn’t. She took three steps and then fell down again. Her knee made a hard SMACK as it hit the polished wood floor. “Owie,” Elinor rolled over and clutched her knee. “I have owie. Kiss it better.”

  “I can’t.” I was starting to feel desperate. I hovered over Elinor, my body screaming to touch her. She was so close I could feel the heat rising off her. She formed her lips into a surprised O, and my pants tightened around my growing erection. I tested my fingers against the wall. This time, they didn’t sink through, but hit the wall with satisfying solidness. What is she doing to me?

  Did I love her? Did I hate her? Why did she have to roll around on the floor like that, her hair fanning her face like a halo, her top slipping down and revealing the edge of her supple breast?

  She’d drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. You have to be the gentleman.

  I groaned as I reached down and grabbed Elinor under the arms. When my fingers touched her, she shuddered with delight. The warmth rippled through my body, depriving me of all rational thought. Hold on, Eric. Keep your cool. I tried desperately to send a message from my brain to my cock, which was already bouncing eagerly against my waistband. You can’t do anything with her now.

  As I pulled Elinor to her feet she fell against me, leaning all her weight against my body. Luckily, I was solid by now, so she didn’t fall through. Instead, the heat surged between us, and the air around crackled with electricity. I looked down at those heavy-lidded eyes and those pursed, bow-shaped lips and it took all the self-control I could muster not to throw her against the bed and tear off her clothes.

  Elinor thrust her head up towards me. I turned mine to the side so fast I wrenched something in my neck. But it was no good. Elinor was determined. She gabbed the sides of my head with both her hands, threading her fingers through my hair in a way that drove me crazy, pulled my head back to face her, and thrust her tongue into my mouth.

  This kiss was different to any we’d shared before. It was wild, untamed, out of control. It was a kiss that spoke of dark lust and a delicious night to follow. It ignited my whole body, so I ceased to be human, but instead became a ball of flame.

  I pulled away. Elinor stared up at me, her lips not even an inch from mine. “What’s wrong?”

  “This isn’t right.” I said, my words coming out hoarse. It took all my self-control to hold her upright without throwing myself at her. “I have to get you to bed.”

  “I was mad at somebody …” she murmured, her breath touching my lips.

  “You were mad at me …” I whispered back. “But I don’t understand why.”

  Elinor lurched away from me, her face crumpling with pain, as if she’d been slapped. She’s remembering why. I cursed myself for reminding her. “I am. I am. I hate you, Eric. I hate you for being like him. For being just the same as him. A dead, deadbeat loser. I hate you!”

  I took a step towards her, my hands raised in supplication. “Like who? You made a mistake. We can talk about this—”

  “Get out!” Elinor screamed, her face contorting into something ugly, terrified. She reached down and grabbed her shoe from her foot, and hurled it at me. It sailed right through my body and clattered against the wall behind. She raised the other shoe and threw it at my head. I felt a strange whisper of it passing through my body before joining its mate on the floor.

  “Fine.” I snarled at her, while she looked for something else to throw. “I only came down here to see if I could help you, anyway. You threw yourself at me. So if I’m a dead, deadbeat loser, what does that make you, Elinor? What does that make you?”

  She screamed incoherently, and the sound was a knife twisting in my gut. I’d said something wrong, really wrong. I’d torn something from her that could not be replaced. I knew that even if Elinor remembered nothing else about tonight in the morning, she would remember what I’d said, and she would hate me forever for it.

  I had broken whatever it was that we had. It could never be repaired again. I turned and floated from the room as fast as I could, her screams following me as I flew up the stairs and through the attic door.

  I floated around in circles, listening to Elinor’s cries rising up through the stairwell. Her pain was intense, palpable, consuming her whole body and mind. It had poisoned her against me. I realised then what I should have realised before, if I hadn’t been such a self-centred idiot. There was something secret in Elinor’s past that was preventing her from believing me. That’s why she said, “I hate you for being like him.”

  It wasn’t about me, which meant I could have fixed everything with her, but now it was too late. White hot rage filled my head, pressing against my skull. I was furious at Elinor, for projecting upon me all her insecurities about someone else. But mostly, I was furious at myself.

  The rage came in waves. Sometimes I was overcome with it, and I would hunch over, clutching my hands into fists, my body shaking with uncontrollable fury. And then it would ebb away, leaving me hollow, devoid of emotion, an unfeeling, unwanted ghost of a man.

  I stared at the new violin in the corner. A new song swirled around inside me, a melody that encompassed everything I had experienced since I’d become a ghost and met this remarkable woman. It was a song of ultimate longing, the song of a love that could never be.

  I reached down and plucked at the strings, my fingers passing through them without connecting. I couldn’t take the song within my head and turn it into music. I couldn’t do the one thing that kept me sane, that kept my rage and pain and anger from overwhelming me.

  It’s no use. I glared down at the instrument with a mixture of longing and revulsion. Even if I could pick up my violin, I couldn’t play the song. I couldn’t let myself be vulnerable like that. Because the song was for her, and she would not listen. She would not see.

  The song would remain trapped inside me forever, the same way I was trapped inside this house, inside this life-that-was-not-life, forever.

  Elinor

  My head is made of agony.

  Elinor

  I want to die.

  Elinor

  I am never drinking again.

  Elinor

  I stayed in bed most of the following day. People pounded on the door downstairs, wanting to get in to prepare for the funeral on Saturday, but I ignored them. The clamour of the workers assembling the marquee outside was like a freight train running through my brain.

  Bianca came to visit at lunchtime. She bounded into my room and jumped on the bed beside me. Her weight caused the springs to bounce and my stomach to lurch aggressively. “Go away,” I moaned.

  “That’s no way to talk to your favourite drinking buddy,” she cooed. “Not after I scaled a tree and climbed in the bathroom window when you didn't answer the door. Besides, I brought hangover food.”

  I watched, bleary-eyed, as she set down a bag of goodies on my nightstand. A bottle of spor
ts drink, a huge box of painkillers, and a warm, delicious-smelling parcel of fish and chips.

  “Uuuuuuurggh,” I did my best impression of a zombie shuffling toward the promise of human flesh as I reached for the chips. My stomach rumbled. I’d been so busy feeling sorry for myself I hadn’t realised how hungry I was.

  “Drink some of this first,” Elinor handed me the sports drink. “It will replenish your electrolytes.”

  I glared at her as I accepted the bottle and slowly sipped the raspberry-flavoured liquid. Elinor looked stunning in a white tank top with some band’s illegible name scrawled across the front, a black lace midi-skirt and combat boots. Her pixie hair was freshly styled and her makeup perfectly applied. Why was she not lying in a pool of her own sweat and vomit, like I was? “Why are you so chipper?” I demanded between sips.

  “Because I stopped drinking after three pints, and you went on to do five more.” Elinor grinned.

  “Oh.” I reached for a chip and stuffed it into my mouth. There was a horrible moment when I swallowed and it seemed as if it was about to come back up, but the warm potato settled nicely in my stomach. I tried another.

  “Yes, and then you started doing shots with an Irish bloke. And then you challenged everyone in the bar to an arm-wrestling match. You even won two rounds. The Irish guy was very impressed, by the way. He left you his number.” She held up a crumpled napkin that was lying on top of my bag.

  “Delightful.” I managed several chips in a row. I already felt a lot better.

  “Oh, but that’s not all. At one point you jumped up on a table and—”

  Bianca was interrupted by a great crash from above. I covered my ears as the sound of something heavy and wooden hitting the floor reverberated through my distraught skull. Bianca yelped and leapt off the bed.

  “Yikes, what was that?” Bianca stared at the ceiling as if she were afraid it might come down on her. Something else crashed against the floor directly above us, shattering into pieces. That sounded expensive.

  “Rats,” I mumbled.

  “Those must be some pretty impressive rats,” Bianca mused, giving me a strange look.

  “Yeah, they’re fucking ridiculous. I’m trying to get exterminators in, but my boss doesn’t consider that a legitimate expense.” Bianca looked like she wanted to say something else, but I pulled myself out of bed and stood on shaking legs on the floor. My head spun madly, and my stomach lurched, but it was time for me to face the light of day. I had work to do.

  “Elinor, are you sure—”

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I mumbled, stumbling toward the bathroom. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to stand up in the shower of my own accord, but I had to do something to avoid a conversation about Eric and last night. “Make some tea and I’ll see you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

  While I showered, I could hear Eric pacing the length of the attic. Occasionally he hurled something across the room. Luckily, with all the noise of the work crew outside and downstairs, I didn’t think anyone would notice.

  I wanted to shout at him, Why are you doing this? Can’t you just slink off quietly into the night like the scumbag you are? My whole night was pretty fuzzy, but the things Eric had said to me replayed over and over in my mind like a broken record. The kiss kept replaying, too. Why had I thrown myself at him like that? The whole thing made me feel sick.

  Why did he have to keep being here, rubbing my face in my own failure to fall in love with anyone decent?

  Fuck him. He’s not my problem. He’s made that perfectly clear. It’s time to forget Eric Marshell, once and for all.

  After I pulled some fresh jeans and a white shirt over my clean body, I felt a lot better. I swallowed two pills to stop the throbbing in my temples, and went downstairs. I wasn’t even off the staircase when Bianca pushed a hot cup of tea into my hand. “The kitchen is filled with cream cakes,” she said, holding up a tea towel with two delicious-looking cakes on top. “I snagged us a couple. The folk at Bewitching Bites sure went crazy for this shindig.”

  “Oooh, are those from Bewitching Bites?” I licked my lips. I was in danger of becoming seriously addicted to that bakery.

  “Yeah. It’s the best place in town. They do all the events around here. When I opened my tattoo studio, they made these amazing Turkish Delight cupcakes with hand-piped tattoo designs in chocolate on top. I swear they were little works of art.”

  We went into the study and shut the door, which muffled some of the noise coming from the kitchen, but didn’t do much about all the grunting and huffing as the gardeners worked outside the window. Bianca didn’t seem to mind that, though. She sat in one of the armchairs and stared lustfully at one of the shirtless gardeners as he hacked at the wisteria that choked the gutters.

  “What’s this?” Bianca held up one of Clara’s books. “Are you actually reading these?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded hastily, my heart thumping. After the way Bianca had reacted last night when I’d tried to tell her about Eric, I didn’t really want to talk to her about ghosts. ”I thought it would be interesting to learn more about Crookshollow’s history.”

  “OK, sure. If you say so.” Bianca gave me another odd look. We chatted and ate our cakes, but then Bianca needed to meet a client at the shop. “I’ll see you on Saturday at the funeral,” she said. “I’ll come over early and help you do your makeup, if you like.”

  “Oh, yeah, thanks.” The funeral. I’d almost forgotten about it. Now I felt sick all over again.

  After Bianca left, I tried to get some work done, but all the numbers blurred together and every time I tapped the keyboard it was like a gunshot going off in my head. Eric started playing the violin upstairs, and I jammed a pair of headphones over my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear it. I sat by the window and read through some more of Clara’s book. There was a chapter on banishing a ghost from your house.

  Salt is a powerful deterrent for unwanted spirits. Ancient witches used to cast their circles in salt, so that no bad spirits could enter the sacred space.

  Eric was definitely classed as an unwanted spirit. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I ducked into the kitchen through the horde of catering staff busy preparing canapés. I found an industrial-sized salt-shaker on the counter, and snuck it out again under my jumper.

  I pulled the top off the salt shaker. Good, it was nearly full. I went upstairs and poured a line of salt outside the attic stairwell. Then, for good measure I lined the bedroom, staircase, study and entrance hall with a salt trail. It looked like an albino snail had run amok through the house, but at least now I was safe from any more unwanted encounters with my resident ghost. I placed the empty salt-shaker back on the kitchen bench and returned to the study just as the florist arrived with more arrangements.

  “I think those ones go in the marquee out back,” I said, as I saw the florist—a beefy man who looked as if he belonged in a wrestling ring instead of a flower shop—heaving a giant urn stuffed with pink and white tulips out of his van. “You can come through the house if it’s easier.”

  “What’s all this white stuff?” complained the florist as he struggled through the front door with the urn, scuffing through my neatly-laid trail.

  “The white stuff? It’s sugar. Sorry, the kitchen has ants and I’m trying to lure them back outside.” I said sweetly.

  He made a face. “It’s all over my shoes. These are Italian leather, you know.”

  “If you have a problem with it, just send a bill to Duncan. I’m sure he’ll be happy to reimburse you.” He’s got plenty of Alice’s money to pay for it.

  Working was impossible. Even shutting the study door and jamming my ear buds in didn’t block out the noise of the workmen preparing for the funeral. I was too jumped up and jittery thinking that an entire violin case filled with cocaine was shoved in the closet in Eric’s old bedroom. And to make matters worse, I knew I’d be seeing Duncan today, and I was trying to work up the courage to report him.

  My finger hovered
over the CALL button on my phone. Clyde’s number flashed on my screen. I knew I had to do it, but for some reason, I kept hesitating.

  Could it be, sneered Devil’s Advocate Elinor, that you don’t want Clyde to get the police involved and send down one of the senior lawyers to take over, sending you back to London and away from Eric?

  Shut up. I shot back. I’m done with Eric. I’m over him. I want to get out of Crookshollow as fast as possible.

  To prove it, I punched the CALL button. Clyde’s secretary answered. She informed me that he was out for a long lunch with Lila. Of course he is. “You could call him on his mobile phone?” she suggested.

  “No, that’s fine, Charlotte. Please just tell him to call me as soon as he returns.”

  I hung up the phone and tossed it on the desk. Spinning around in the chair, I stared up at those bookshelves, trying to divine something of Alice Marshell from the tomes she had collected and cherished. It was such a vast and fascinating collection of political writing, philosophy, science, and great literature. My gaze fell on one particular book.

  Swann’s Way. It was the book that had fallen on my head when Eric first surprised me in the study. Not really sure what I was doing, I reached over to the shelf and pulled out the book. As I did, a piece of paper fell out from behind it and fluttered to the floor. It was a letter, covered front and back with rows of neat handwriting.

  I picked it up and inspected it. “The revised will and testament of Alice Marshell.”

  Holy shit.

  Before I read any further, I pulled out one of Alice’s ledger books and compared the handwriting. It was identical. This was the real thing, written in Alice’s hand. The corners of the paper were crumpled from being smushed behind the books. I checked the date in the corner – she’d written this two years ago, and even had it witnessed by two nurses. So why was it stashed behind the bookshelf, instead of on file at the firm?