Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1)

by Tiana Laveen

  So here I come, my beautiful Sadie and my innocent, precious baby boy, my one and only son, Joseph.

  I will suffer until we meet again.

  I leave white roses in your honor.

  And the day I become your husband, when you accept me back, I will sprinkle the petals down from Heaven.

  Love,

  Peter

  Sloan snatched a tissue off his desk and coughed into the thing. He pressed his eyes closed as his eyes welled with tears. A ball of emotion caught him in the throat, the pain that dripped all over the words seeping into him, feeling fresh to the touch, as if the deceased man had just written them mere moments earlier.

  “Jesus Christ.” His voice trembled.

  Never in his life had he read something so disturbingly beautiful, pitiful, and horrible all at once. He dared himself to look over at Emerald, who didn’t seem to be in much better condition than himself. Titus and his own son had been right, and so had everyone else who’d proclaimed the house to be filled with icy, paralyzing sorrow, a shell with no heartbeat, while in some instances it turned to an oven, piping hot with misery and loathing. Peter had waited until someone he felt he could trust entered the dwelling, and he’d kept them close, gaining their confidence through a series of tests. Little by little, the paranoid spirit revealed his secrets. The room temperature rose all of a sudden, the all too familiar coldness they’d learned to tolerate like a second skin dissipating.

  “Do you feel that?” He looked around and up, as if waiting to see a glimpse of Heaven. The space wrapped them in a burst of balminess from an unknown source, as if a heating pilot had been lit and surrounded them with womb-like comfort.

  “Yes…” Her expression turned to amazement. “It feels… it feels like something has lifted.” She stretched out her arms, as if waiting to catch a falling bouquet. “Like nothing but pure goodness is here.” After a moment, she added, “What are you going to do, Sloan? You have hardcore proof now of what happened, not just what Titus and your research told you. Now Peter is saying, ‘Yes, this is what happened.’” Emerald eyes grew glossy with a pinkish hue.

  “I’m already one step ahead of you.” Sloan grabbed his phone from his desk and dialed, putting it on speaker.

  “Hey, Sloan, I’ve read half the book thus far and it’s excellent.”

  “Hi, Deloris, thanks… Look, I’m not gonna keep ya. This is just a head’s up.”

  “A head’s up? Oh no.” She sighed. “Dennis the Menace, what have you done now?”

  Sloan laughed lightly. “I’m going to call the publishing house and have them wait a second. I want to add a few photos to the book that I discovered here at the house, and another few pages at the end of the book that I think are important. My research has just been validated, and I want to state it as such with concrete proof.”

  “Oh.” She sighed with relief. “That should be okay. What brought this on?”

  “Well, when you read it all the way to the end, receive my added material and see these pictures, you will completely understand. My mind is completely blown.” He took a deep breath and continued, “This is no hodge-podge biographical romance. I’ve got hardcore evidence now of my claims, Deloris. I believe Peter Jones will finally be at peace. He knows his story is going to be told just how he wants it be. He’s been waiting a very long time for this moment, and now, the time has come at last…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Forever Children of the Damned

  The first hard thaw that reveals the prepubescent blooms is like an awakening to birth, sex, and soul…

  Spring had snuck in with her frilly tulle gown in shades of pink and purple, glowing like lightning bugs in the midnight sky while sporting a cherry blossom tiara. She smelled like an American bakery populated by old ladies doused in expensive perfume, and offered its tears of afternoon rain to wash away months of seasonal depression.

  Hand in hand, Emerald and Sloan walked the Maxim downtown district streets, both clad in oversized navy blue hoodies and jeans. Her 50th birthday had arrived, and he had some things planned for later in the day that he refused to tell her about. Her excitement couldn’t be squelched even if she tried. Life had become anything but predictable, and those sudden surprises had blessed them in so many ways.

  They’d finally set a date for their nuptials, decided on a honeymoon destination—Turks and Caicos—and Sloan’s engagement to her had been covered by all the tabloids. For the first time in her life, she couldn’t even go to a gas station and be left in peace. She had no idea why it had never occurred to her that this was a big deal, being the main squeeze of a celebrity. To her, he was just Sloan, and he was magic to her—not because of his talents as a writer, but he was her ideal of a best friend in a lovely, manly package.

  He’d been interviewed during a jaunt to the post office; that was when he’d confirmed the engagement, while also throwing in a plug regarding his upcoming novel. Just like Sloan, always business minded and definitely used to personal intrusions.

  What a strange feeling to have people pulling her aside at work, questioning her, declaring how’d they’d known her for years and years, yet had no idea she was dating someone, let alone engaged to a superstar. A silly assumption, if ever there was one. Some ladies might have jumped at the chance to date a celebrity and make it known to the world, but what she had needed no advertising; it was real, without need of extra roving eyes to somehow give it validity.

  And besides, why would she wear such an expensive and lovely piece of jewelry to a dental office? Most times her fingers were half way thrust in someone’s mouth, twisting and contorting as she gave a guy a thorough cleaning. More important, however, was her privacy. Her business was just that: her business. She saw no reason to broadcast her personal affairs, but made no concerted efforts to hide them, either. This was simply life, and she was living it to the fullest.

  Sloan paused as they passed a frozen yogurt parlor, drawing her back into the now.

  “That looks good.” The display of creamy and colorful delights drew a passerby in. “I wonder if they have gelato?”

  She shrugged. “We can always go in and ask, but they’re still closed.” She pointed to the sign with the times of business printed on it. Sloan groaned, his heart apparently set on it. “Let’s just keep on walking; when we turn around and come back past, it should be open by then.”

  Hands linked again, they resumed walking and talking about anything and everything, from wedding plans to the various types of foliage that grow in Maxim. As they passed a second hand children’s clothing store, she paused. The name, ‘Forever Child’ jumped out at her from above the entrance, printed in large, uneven letters, as if a kid had drawn them with the broken off nub of a crayon in all the colors of the rainbow. A toddler-sized fiberglass mannequin stood in the front window display, donning a pair of dark wash denim capris, a slingshot peeking out of one of the large pockets. A sweet, pale pink sweater with pearl buttons and a matching cap completed the ensemble.

  “Is something wrong?” Sloan questioned as she kept staring at the exhibit.

  She imagined she looked a bit miffed, perhaps even angry. She didn’t bother to glance at her own reflection though, only at the mannequin.

  “Forever Child…” she mumbled. “You know, after my mother left, I had this stupid idea that I could somehow stop myself from growing. For some reason, the name of this place reminded me of that. That’s what I wanted to do… stay that same age for as long as I could.”

  “Why? Most kids want to be adults. I remember being eager to grow up and go on with my life. Now though, sometimes I and some of my friends sit back and talk, and I know we’d do almost anything to get back to our youth and make different choices. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but everything happens the way it should, I guess.” He chuckled. His cheeks took on a pinkish hue, and she could see in his face he was trying to pull her out of her strange mood.

  She smiled sadly and tugged his hand, shepherding him along the s
idewalk, now bustling with more and more people. Something in his eyes gleamed with concern, while his smile gave instant comfort.

  “Emerald, tell me why you wanted to stay a little girl?”

  She hesitated for some seconds. “I wanted to stay small so if my mother ever came back for me, she’d recognize me and would come get me, tell me she was sorry and carry me and Daddy and Willie away to some magical place.” She looked up at him, emotion welling inside. Sloan gripped her hand harder, then kissed her on her forehead. “It was stupid, I know that, but at the time I honestly believed it would solve all of my issues, you know? If I could just stay a child forever, then we could begin anew. I could have my mother and my father. Forget the past, all of it.” She waved her free hand as if wielding an imaginary magic wand. “And she could raise me. I’d never have to answer the question, ‘Where is your mother?’ again. Just foolish. I was real silly like that.”

  “First of all, it’s not foolish, and it’s not silly. It’s solution driven. You were faced with a problem and you were trying to find answers, ways to make it all make sense. Kids are the smartest people on Earth.” Catching her wand-waving hand in mid-air, he brought both of her hands up to his lips and laid a kiss across her knuckles, then let go of the one. “They see things simply, uncomplicated by all the craziness of the world. It’s like we go backwards, in reverse, as we age. The more we know, in some ways, the dumber we become.”

  She chuckled at that. “That’s sad, but in some ways true.”

  “And you may not be a forever child.” Stopping in his tracks, he pulled her to him. “But you are forever my sweetheart.” His hard, barrel chest pushed against her, flattening her breasts. She rested her head on it, feeling comforted, his cool necklace against her cheek. His heartbeat was strong, and on time. With a tilt of her chin, she looked up into his eyes. He pressed his lips against hers and held her tight, so close, their souls had no choice but to dance. She never wished to let go.

  The familiar scent of honeysuckle gamboled past them, wafting from a nearby essential oils and incense shop. The sounds of J. Dilla’s ‘Life’ poured out from the open doorway of the store, reminding her of a time when Nikki would bop about in her bedroom as a teenager, listening to all sorts of music as she studied or unwound for the day.

  The sphere of life had come full circle…

  And time waited for no one.

  Emerald couldn’t hide from her moons, yet could revel in her suns.

  She was now the mother, and one day, she’d be the grandmother, too.

  Time wanted to be paid, receive its just due.

  There were no forever children, only forever change.

  From melted worlds that were long gone,

  Emotionally empty parents without a compass that were estranged.

  Ghostly memories may not give her a chance at a second dance,

  But they always called her by name…

  Baby, you are FOREVER loved…

  Just like the contents of the leather bound booklet he’d briefly mistaken for decomposing batwings, it was darker than he recalled. Sloan re-read his book before approving the final edits, and the feeling that best described him then was ‘horrified’. Not at what he wrote, or how he wrote it, but that the romance he’d penned was chock full of despair, the stuff shadowy alleyways and terrifying dungeons were made of.

  He sat in his office glaring at the words, swirls of smoke from his rested cigarette twirling around him and ‘I Got a Woman’ by Ray Charles playing in a low hum on the record player. A glass of whiskey, liquid fire half way consumed, sat to the left of his laptop. He absently ran his hand over his phone, caressing it like some slumbering lover as he recalled Emerald’s recent words.

  He’d called her in a semi-state of panic, yet doing his best to keep it under key, downplay it. What was he thinking? She’d seen right through it. He’d told her of his surprise, of his own broken heart, of his concerns and worries regarding the novel. It was nothing like he’d ever written. Had he been possessed and someone else jumped into his body and penned the words? They were beautifully macabre, devoid of humor… not his style and more in the vein of Peter Jones’ work.

  “Sloan, baby, now look… It’s going to be what it’s going to be, all right? You told his truth, right?’ Emerald had told him, quite simply, matter-of-factly.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you did your job. You are the ghost writer, and now it is done.”

  And she was right. He placed the cigarette to his lips and took a long drawl with a satisfied smile.

  …Sometimes the truth ain’t pretty. It doesn’t powder its face, glue on lashes or wear form-fitting expensive dresses with plunging necklines. It just sits there in its stark nakedness, comfortable with all of its blue bumps and black bruises, scaly scabs, and pulsing, open wounds. We’re the ones who try to change it, to make it gorgeous when all it wants to do is be shared and accepted ‘as is.’ There is no room for buyer’s remorse. It’s not our place to form an amendment, just like we can’t rewind the rusty wheels of time and make it do our bidding. We can’t hide the truth forever, either.

  It’s got a million legs, crawling forward and up, trying to show the world what it’s made of in the midst of sewage and bullshit. It’s got a billion missions and a hundred hourly wishes, and always gets its blessed way. The truth constantly comes out, like the sun after the rain, like weathered love letters out of a dark, stagnant hole in an office wall, hidden by brick rubble… It consumes your mental health until you accept it. Accept it like a love-sick, tortured soul playing records in the middle of the night while you wait to die a slow death; starving as you sit on the truth, then regretful you didn’t respect its power after all was said and done.

  The truth won’t do your bidding,

  It won’t conform to your rules and laws.

  It won’t bow down to you.

  But one thing it does promise, like a last wish before a final, dying breath…

  It WILL set you free…

  The sun would be setting soon, and it would leave him shrouded in darkness. The Seriatee Dam had rushing waters that pooled into bursting white, hastening irrigation. As he stood there observing the sight, he found the noise almost deafening. Sloan held one of Peter Jones’ love letters in his right hand as he observed the scene around him, blinking only when necessary. He’d read about this location several times, and decided to make the trek to find the place the man had mentioned in a letter Sloan had found folded up inside of one of Peter’s many novels…

  I go to the Seriatee Dam and just stand there. I ask to be loved at the Seriatee Dam. I come up with new ideas at the Seriatee Dam, and I die a little at the Seriatee Dam…

  At the time when he’d first read the text, Sloan had no idea what Peter had meant.

  ‘I die a little at the Seriatee Dam…’

  But now, as he stood there, leaning against his new black Weisman MF5 and looking about, hearing the rush of water and the birds, he understood completely. He’d put on a light gray cardigan under his black leather jacket and matching gloves, somber colors for the occasion—for he was preparing for a ceremony of sorts. Sloan wanted to look his best when he went to the Seriatee Dam because Peter was now his muse, and he understood him all too well. Like the rushes of cool water, the world he’d never known existed would flood him with ideas, and like one would praise God, one had to kneel down, pray, and offer a sacrifice.

  Nothing in this life came for free, not even creative genius. So many articles about the man brought forth the age old question, “Where in the hell was Peter Jones getting these ideas from?” Jones had been clearly a man before his time, able to scare even the most unmovable of men. He managed to paint pictures with words that would haunt a person, poison them to the point they’d never be the same again…

  And his readers were all the grateful for it. That was the Deity he’d spoken of, the belief that if you can crawl into someone’s brain, then you have reached the pinnacle of Transcendence.
>
  But there was no God without love, for to create from one’s soul, love was always required. Peter mocked love by falling prey to his own fears. He wrote frightening stories, but couldn’t stomach the ideal of rejection, after countless years of admiration going up in smoke. This could possibly explain why the book Sloan had written about the man was marred with angst. His mission was to spread light and knowledge, tell the tale of two lovers, but so much more had transpired.

  Slowly unfolding the letter, Sloan cleared his throat and spoke aloud, yelling out the words over the roar of the rushing water…

  “Peter, it’s me, Sloan. I feel like you might be here. You’re no longer in my house, of that I’m certain. It’s like the moment Emerald and I found those letters and photos, you were officially done with us, because you’d gotten what you wanted all along.” He swallowed, quelling the roar of emotion inside him. “I’m not in the business of judging of you, so please know I don’t think any less of you because of what happened in your life. There was a time in my own life when I would have done just that, though. I would have looked down on you, thought myself better than you… I didn’t have the same struggles in life that you did. I never experienced being in love with someone society claimed you couldn’t have. I didn’t see the things you saw, nor have the things you had. During this journey though, I realized that you chose me.

  “Peter, in my research, I found out that you’d been given up for adoption as a baby, and you never felt like you really fit in or were welcome. Your adoptive mother was cruel, overbearing… She tried to break your spirit. Once, during an interview, you stated in a joking manner that you were afraid to get married and have children… fearing you’d find a way to ruin it, because you were self destructive. You spoke that into existence, but I don’t believe you realized it at that time, and now…” Sloan sniffed and looked down at his shoes, then back at the dam. “Now you regret it.”