Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1)

by Tiana Laveen

  “But you don’t understand! All of this could bring me attention that would be detrimental to my career and I don’t want other people involved. This is a private matter, Emerald. I never signed up for this!”

  “This was never a private matter, Sloan. As soon as you moved in here, you did sign up for this, all right? Peter Jones’ home… unsolved mysteries! You are the only person to live in this house and stay, but you are also the only person, from what we know, who the energy in here didn’t physically attack. Hey, whoever he is or whatever it is wants to be gentle with you, so be thankful for that much.”

  “Oh, so now I’m supposed to thank the fucking ghost, Emerald? I’m supposed to say, ‘Hey, dead buddy, thanks for blaring old songs at all hours of the night, for trying to seduce my girlfriend and for putting some fucked up dead baby on my goddamn ceiling’?!” He shook his head violently, as if trying to banish everything around him, including the house itself. “I wish I’d never moved into this fuckin’ place!”

  “Buyer’s remorse is far too late. You need to concentrate on what you can do, and how to move forward and get this addressed.”

  “I agree with your friend here,” the investigator chimed in, though it was clear Sloan intimidated him as his reply had a nervous tinge to it.

  “Sloan, baby, look.” She brought her hands together and rested her chin on her fingertips. “Beacon Research Team have a good reputation in Maxim, actually state wide. They are reliable and from what I gather, trustworthy. I checked for myself, too, and you need to put some trust in them since you gave them the go-ahead to come to your home and conduct business. Let them do their job.” She pointed to the investigator standing there, the man now a bit red in the face after witnessing their quarrel. “And besides, if you had it under control and if your way was working out so well, they wouldn’t be here, now would they?”

  Sloan said nothing, but his grimace grew as his emotions seemed to feast on the downward spiral of his spirit…

  “She’s right.” Mike cleared his throat behind her, making his presence known. “Sloan, you have to give it up, man.” He threw his arms up in surrender. “All this time you’ve been trying to control this presence and it hasn’t worked. You thought you could sweet talk it, make deals with it, and it has been doing whatever it wants to do. Whatever is going on, it doesn’t play by our rules. Once it started messin’ with Emerald, it was a wrap.” She shot a puzzled look at Mike at that statement. “Sloan, you called me goin’ the hell off last night. I mean, you were completely losing your shit! I haven’t heard you that angry in… hell, I don’t even know how long.”

  Emerald was none the wiser to such a conversation, but not the least bit surprised.

  “So do everyone a favor; forget about what people might think, get your pride ’nd ego out the way, and let these people have a fair shot at it.”

  On a deep exhale, Sloan closed his eyes, looking completely drained. He’d been double teamed and taken down to the ground. Running his hand across his face, he nodded, finally conceding.

  “All right… okay. Do what you have to do.” He waved his hand at the guy. “Just get it, him, whatever the fuck it is out of my damn house.” Then, turning his back, he proceeded to climb back up the steps, his broad shoulders slumped, laboring over each step, as if simply moving left him breathless.

  “Mr. Steele, we’ve not seen this much activity in one house in years,” the guy called out before Sloan was all but gone. Sloan paused and looked back at him. “Though I’m certain this has been quite upsetting for you, I and my colleagues are completely fascinated and will do everything in our power to provide some peace for you and your family. Once we compile all the notes of our investigation, we will present them to you. I will be calling the medium today but I let you hear this EVP as proof that your suspicions are correct and to encourage you to move forward with our next plan of action. Your house is definitely occupied by a resident other than yourself, and it’s not going to leave without a fight…”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It’s a Cutthroat World…

  The Maxim Juneberry branch library was eerily empty. A vaulted snow-white ceiling with contemporary rectangular fixtures beamed streams of fluorescent lighting, making the building look more like an upper-class banking institution rather than a place for reading, relaxing, and research. Sloan sat in a far back room on the third floor, away from the main areas that were filled with tax dollar funded computers and copiers, a children’s area that would make most kids envious, and a media area stockpiled with glossy magazines, documentary DVDs, and music selections on CDs and mp3 purchase catalogs.

  He bypassed all of the scenery, even failing to check out several of his own novels that had their place on a stuffed shelf in the fantasy section, and sat secluded in this sterile hideaway, trying to regain his bearings after an unnerving phone call with Joel while driving on the way over. Somehow, the kid had found out about what the hell was going on and berated him with a bunch of I told you so’s, repeated like heartburn, in heavy rotation.

  He pushed the verbal chastising aside and flipped through the hoary newspapers and articles, the ones not available online, all wrapped in plastic for protection. All of the information he focused on detailed the quite colorful life and dismal death of Peter Jones. The medium was to arrive the following day and, according to the investigation group, the man was not privy to information about his property. It didn’t matter; it was all just plain silly. He didn’t believe in mediums, empaths, sensitives, psychics and the like, but he imagined one’s intuition was a definite compass to take heed of.

  A wave of utter hopelessness and foolishness washed over him, all rolled tight into a ball of stress that caught in his throat, refusing to let him form his next thought in peace.

  I’m a hypocrite…again.

  He didn’t believe many things, but they’d happened, materialized right before him and continued to do so at whim. Not wishing something to be true didn’t make it false; credence within itself was no magic fairy or genie bestowing wishes to all who professed it possible. Belief and truth were not respecters of each other’s lot in life, and humanity was simply caught in the middle of the disappointment and surprise. He didn’t believe in restless ghosts, ravenous demons dying for a nip at one’s soul, malevolent poltergeists or guardian angels; yet, something that fit one of those categories now haunted his home, pretending to live, when all it brought to him was an air of death.

  Belief had made a fool of him, time and time again, and facing that truth had been Sloan’s greatest challenge as of late. He didn’t think he’d ever fall in love again. But he had, with the most incredible woman he’d ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. Emerald was truth wrapped in flesh, playing on his weakness for needing pure intimacy and authenticity, but she paired her offering with kindness, humor, intelligence, and the ability to express herself without any sugarcoating. He trusted her more than anyone else in his world, and he shocked himself with how fast and hard he’d fallen for the woman.

  Their sexual chemistry was the mere cherry on top. He hadn’t believed he could change, believing himself destined to be just as cold hearted as his father; and yet, he’d experienced a transformation. He saw himself now as an idiot and a scholar, all at once. He was in dire need of education, of letting go. His pride was a jagged pill to swallow, one that scratched his insides to shreds on its way down. Grabbing his to-go coffee cup, he popped the lid and savored the liquid warmth as it massaged its way down to his cantankerous gut.

  He perused the stack of papers in front of him, one by one, and fell into a spell of sorts. Once again, belief reared its ugly head. He didn’t want to imagine what he was seeing and feeling, but the facts were there, written in black and white.

  Peter A. Jones had been born and bred in New York City, just like himself. A charming, handsome bachelor, the man had moved to Maxim to concentrate, to work and be at peace. He’d written his most infamous work right there in that office, at that same des
k. Though Sloan didn’t consider himself charming, others seemed to consider him so “when he wished to be.” He’d also never put much stock in his physical appearance, feeling at times like a big oaf, a bit clumsy on occasion. He kept reading, scanning the information, looking for answers, clues, anything to ease his mind.

  One report stated that Peter had never married or had any children. The historian Emerald had taken him to had already given him this piece of information, so this was nothing new. None of this helped quench his curiosity and need for answers.

  The photos of the man showed he’d been indeed dapper. For some reason, Sloan found himself smiling as he looked into the eyes of the fellow. They had the same grin—a titled smirk—and their eyes seemed to glimmer with the same twisted brand of mischievousness. Peter Jones had dark hair, a bit long at the top, when not donning one of his infamous hats. There was an air of class and illustriousness about him, too. Many of the photos featured him lounging about in expensive suits, distinguished top hats, smoking cigarettes and expensive cigars, and downing glasses of cognac. In one black and white photograph in particular, a close up, Sloan felt like the man was looking him in the eye.

  They both were tall, but Peter had a lanky physique, like an imposing but slender, pyramidal tupelo tree from Georgia. They did share a few things in common, which had little to do with writing. Like Sloan, Peter had been a loner and also possessed quite a temper. He was eccentric and suave, loved but aloof. He attended lavish, big name A-lister revelries, but according to some reports from that time, he preferred small, intimate dinner parties where conversation flowed more easily.

  He had a reputation of coming across as real and genuine, but truth be told, no one knew the real Peter Jones at all. To that, Sloan could relate. Mr. Jones had been a walking mask, and the only time he’d appeared to let his guard down happened after a serious car accident in which his turquoise Chevrolet Corvette Roadster rolled over three times down a heavily wooded embankment one early Sunday morning.

  He’d been rushed to the hospital, and doctors said it was a miracle that he survived; and not only that, he only had one broken rib and a few minor scratches and bruises. His writing had changed somewhat after that event, according to several close friends and fans. It was more ‘thoughtful, introspective and provocative’, as one person reported.

  Sloan surmised a near death experience could do that to a man. Trauma had a way of turning the tide, making one consider their life from various angles, and being thankful that angle didn’t involve being six feet under. Peter had escaped death, but then, for some reason, handed himself over to it after cheating it and denying the Grim Reaper his reward. How very bizarre…

  Sloan came upon several more photos and articles, but another one grabbed his attention. Peter was featured in his hospital bed holding a cigarette, the thing dangling between his fingers as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He sported a big smile and three shapely nurses surrounded him in different poses. A thick wave of dark hair hung over one of his eyes. Sloan chuckled at the caption: “Writer Peter Jones says, ‘I must’ve died and went to heaven! Three gorgeous dames just gave me a bubble bath!’”

  Mr. Jones had definitely been a ladies’ man, and the gossip rags of that time declared he’d left a slew of broken hearts—from affairs with famous actresses, to your average unknown, naïve girl next door. The only thing the man had been committed to, it seemed, was his writing, and he’d been damn good at it. Matter of fact, Sloan believed him one of the three best damn horror writers of his time.

  “You were complicated, weren’t cha?” Sloan muttered to himself as he got to his feet. Polishing off the last drops of the now cold coffee, he made his way to the exit, but something made him pause. The air was perfumed with what reminded him of Old Spice. He wanted to push it out of his mind, declare it a figment of his imagination, but he knew better…

  “You’re watching me, aren’t you? You came here with me, Peter… No, you led me here, put it on my mind to read all about you. Well, I’m here now, Peter. I’m here, now. You’ve made my life a living hell, you know that? I thought we had a deal, but instead, you tried to wine and dine my woman and then get on my case for makin’ her go home. I don’t want you around, you understand? I don’t care how crazy I look, standing here talking to thin air. I think you know me well enough by now to understand I am not going to just lie back and take your bullshit. I’m not afraid of you, so tell me how to help you, and then get the fuck out of my house, ya got it?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he stormed away. He just knew that, sooner or later, Peter would make it crystal clear what his intentions were. And this time, Sloan would be ready.

  The man looked to be approximately in his early 60’s. He stood in the middle of the foyer, a beat up brown cowboy hat pulled down on his head, a button-down green plaid shirt, a gold cross around his flushed neck, and a bushy, silver ponytail hanging down his back. His blue jeans were worn and stained, as if he, too, repaired and restored furniture. His light brown eyes were slightly slanted and his expression serious, but not quite cold. Titus was his name, and he’d been there for at least three hours, not sharing one word as he roamed about the premises.

  He spent quite a bit of time outside, but when he ventured indoors during his tour, he kept returning to the office. The investigative team moved around him, continuing their research but giving him his space—a long leash. Emerald and Sloan sat at the dining room table, their nerves completely wrecked. That evening, the investigative team urged her to return after work, but this time, she didn’t care to do so. She had a bad feeling, the kind Sugar had warned about.

  When she walked in the front door, a cold breeze hit her and, for some reason, she brimmed with anger. Whatever was going on, the mood had drastically changed from her prior visit and she didn’t need the medium to confirm it. Sloan looked at her every now and again while he drowned himself with coffee and chain smoked as if his life depended upon it. She’d been picking at the same tiny pickle spear for nearly an hour, and the turkey sandwich on her plate had turned hard and stale. Titus wore a pair of brown work boots, the kind a construction worker may wear, so with every noisy step they knew his whereabouts in the house, with or without the cameras.

  Those same hard steps approached them after a while. Snatching a chair from the dining room table, he turned it around to face him and rode it backwards, resting his arms along the back. Two of the investigators soon joined them and stood to his side. Emerald’s heart began to beat harder and harder, anticipation and worry the only things she could muster as she picked up the strange, thick energy that floated about in that space.

  After sucking on his tongue, looking deceptively bored, the medium offered a listless smile at Sloan.

  “Well, sir,” the man stated in a thick, Southern drawl, “you got yourself a real humdinger.”

  Sloan broke their eye contact and glared into space, his fingers twitching ever so slightly. More investigators entered the room and sat with them as if some impromptu meeting had been called.

  “I’m going to jump right into what I found out. Is that all right with you?” Sloan gave a stilted nod. “Good. I’m sure this isn’t any surprise to you, Mr. Steele, but the spirit creatin’ the most havoc in here is that of Peter Jones. Ya got three in here, to be exact. I’ll get into who the other two are in a second. Now, let me first tell you the rules. Actually, it’s only one rule, but it’s important. Don’t interrupt me while I’m speakin’ unless I ask you something directly—do you understand me?” the man stated grimly.

  Sloan nodded in agreement.

  “Good. Let’s start from the top. This house had two owners before Peter lived here. None of those folks are here anymore, at least not in spirit. This place has soaked up this man’s torment, and it’s going to take the Lord’s biggest bottle of bleach to clean it all up. He’s mad… mad as hell, okay? And you’re lucky because he’s taken a liking to you and your lady friend here.” The medium shot Emerald a bri
ef look, then turned back towards Sloan. “His original plan when you moved in here was to get rid of you, like he’d done all the others. He preferred to be alone. But as he got to watch you, he decided he liked you so he was kind of torn as to what to do. Now, despite him liking you, he was still leaning towards runnin’ you out of here, but then, he saw her.” He motioned in Emerald’s direction. “He figured she’d be a better candidate. You see, he wants to use her to get him what he needs.” Perturbed and confused, Emerald gave him a questioning look. “The reason being, Mr. Steele, is that he tried you first, but it just wasn’t working out. Peter got mighty upset with you that you kept blowin’ him off. The activity got worse and worse, right?”

  “Yes,” Sloan quickly answered, then took Emerald’s hand and held it.

  “He was tryna get your attention, but you’re a skeptic.” The man grimaced, a thick layer of judgment smeared all over his tone. “Just like right now, you’re listening to me and still wanting to believe none of this is happening to you, but it is!” He smacked the table with a hard hand, causing several people to jump in their seats. “And you’re a damn lie to tell people you don’t believe in this sort of thing, ’cause you know people are empathic and ghosts are real, damn you!

  “You saw your own dead grandfather years after the fact. He walked right through your front door. And your girlfriend sittin’ over here,” he said, pointing at Emerald once again, “is a damn sensitive! She’s empathic, you son of a bitch! That’s why Peter likes ’er and that’s why you like ’er, too!”

  Emerald gasped, shocked at the revelation. She kept any questions to herself, though, just as she’d been instructed, but the look in Sloan’s eyes damn near body slammed her psyche. She always suspected she might have a touch of sight, as the old folks sometimes called it, but she’d never given much thought to it. Perhaps that was why things like this intrigued her so much.