Haunted Love

by Jessica Frances

  Apart from being obviously distraught as he yells out “Thea!” over and over, he’s also familiar. I have seen his photo plastered over the walls with the victim.

  This must be her brother.

  I take a deep breath, knowing this is one of the worst parts of my job, and then take a step towards him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thea

  I can’t believe it. I … I … No. It can’t be real. I … I’m dead.

  I’m lying on my bed, covered only by a plain white sheet that doesn’t belong to me, surrounded by strangers. Men and women I have never even laid eyes on are moving around my house, touching my things, while I’m lifeless in my bedroom. I suppose the fact that I let the knowledge of strangers touching my things upset me first may seem surprising. I think it is because, deep down, I know acknowledging how my body looks will make this more real and much worse.

  And I’m right.

  It’s horrible, awful, and disgusting what I have been reduced to. It’s too shocking to be a lie. It is too much to be just some horrible nightmare. I was ready to deny and not believe any of this before when I spoke to Santa, but there is no denying it now, no way that my mind is sick enough to come up with a nightmare this twisted.

  I’m dead, and there is nothing I can do to change it.

  How did I not see this coming? How did I not get myself out of this? How could I let myself be killed?

  My thoughts circle and self-blame tries to take me down, but I’m too angry to let it settle. I know I made mistakes in my life, but no one deserves to have their life end like this.

  I’m going to haunt whoever did this to me and make his life miserable. Death is too easy for him. No, I’m going to drive him to insanity.

  I try to leave my room, try to get away from this hell I’m witnessing, but I can’t. There is an invisible wall keeping me locked in the room, and I don’t know why other than to torture me. Is this what Santa was talking about? Is this what makes people lose hope? Because, if I have to keep staring at myself in this state, I am definitely going to be driven crazy.

  I glance around at the men and women who are working around me, careful to block the view of myself for the moment and attempt to remain calm.

  There are two women dusting for what I assume are prints by my dresser, and two men are working in my bathroom. I irrationally feel grateful I just scrubbed the tub over the weekend, as if I should worry about feeling embarrassed about a dirty bathroom. I have just been murdered! I think I can catch a break on the cleanliness of my house.

  There are two other men who are obviously different from the others. One is a dark-skinned older man, maybe nearing sixty, who is shorter than me by a long shot. His face is wrinkled, his eyes naturally narrowed, and although it’s not easy to tell in the ridiculous coveralls everyone is wearing, I can see a large, rounded bulge over his stomach area. His eyes only briefly glance at my lifeless body, mostly keeping his gaze on the younger man next to him.

  I would place that man’s age somewhere in his late-twenties to early-thirties. He has dark blonde hair, tanned skin, and light blue eyes. His back is straight, shoulders taunt, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any extra weight on him. In fact, I would say he looks a little on the lean side. He’s tall—taller than me—and I think maybe, if he wasn’t frowning so much, he might actually be good-looking.

  I guess these two are the detectives working my murder investigation. As that realization really begins to sink in, so does the fact that I have been murdered.

  I can’t stop myself from again staring at my beaten body, not hearing any of the discussion going on around me, although I’m sure I am the topic of conversation. I don’t think I want or need to hear the list of fatal injuries I have accumulated. Instead, I get lost in the sight of myself, trying to remember what happened. I don’t, though. I can’t.

  It’s a complete blank. Part of me wonders if it is a good thing I have blocked it out, but then, how am I supposed to haunt the bastard who did this if I don’t know who it is?

  I’m brought out of my thoughts by a painful cry from downstairs. A man’s voice is crying out my name, and my heart breaks as I quickly recognize it.

  Flynn.

  I desperately need to get out of this room and go to him, and as I follow the younger detective out, I thankfully find that I can now leave my room, which is a relief. I desperately needed to get away from that awful scene, even if my brother is crying out for me.

  When I find him outside, there are two men holding him back. He’s just outside the doorway of my house, his face pale and panicked.

  “Where is she?” Flynn demands as I move closer to him, trying to wrap him in a hug as I tell him I’m right here. However, I move straight through him

  “Sir, please, you can’t be in here,” one of the police officers holding him says as they manage to drag him to the sidewalk outside.

  “You’re Flynn Bell? The … Your sister lives at this address?” the younger detective asks, careful not to call me either deceased or victim to him.

  “Yes, Thea Bell. Is she okay? What happened? Why are there so many police cars and news’ vans here?” Flynn asks, his voice shaking with the effort to keep from shouting. I know he’s about ready to lose his shit.

  The younger detective takes a step forward, holding out his hand. “My name is Detective Aiden Mercer. I’m the lead detective on your sister’s murder case.”

  “Murder?” Flynn cries, his legs giving out from under him.

  “You ass, couldn’t you have waited to tell him that until he was sitting down!” I growl at Mercer, not even sparing him the glare he deserves as I crouch next to my brother. “And is that honestly how you usually break news to people? How crass can you be?” I snap at him, wanting so badly to give Flynn comfort, but again, my arm moves through him. He doesn’t even sense that I’m here.

  Didn’t Santa tell me I would be visible to someone? It has to Flynn who can see me. This is why I came back—I need to speak to him, offer him comfort.

  As Mercer clears his throat, causing me to look over at him, he at least has the sense to appear somewhat guilty over Flynn’s reaction.

  “Get him up and over to the squad car.” Mercer nods his head towards a police vehicle parked at the edge of my house.

  Once the men have Flynn by both arms, Mercer steps in front of him and halts their retreat. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to say that, for the time being, you won’t be able to go into your sister’s house. Right now, it’s a crime scene. I have questions for you, but I understand that you need some time to process this information. Here is my cell number; call me tomorrow to arrange a time when we can talk.” He hands over a business card, and when Flynn doesn’t take it from him, he places it in Flynn’s jacket pocket.

  “Make sure he doesn’t leave without giving you his contact information,” he says to the two policemen before they walk Flynn slowly over to the police car where they sit him down.

  I want to go with them, but my feet won’t move and instead I stay standing by Mercer as he watches Flynn leave.

  “Please, please tell me I’m not going insane,” he whispers, and I swear he glances at me.

  It takes me a moment to realize he is in fact staring at me and another moment for me to comprehend what that means.

  “No freaking way!” I groan, cursing Santa badly in my mind.

  “Mercer, who was that?” The older detective slowly moves down the stairs, taking off the coveralls and removing them until he’s just in an old, battered suit underneath.

  “The victim’s brother. I think he’s going into shock.”

  “Not surprising. With a death like this, that shock will only get worse. I’m heading off. I think you should, too. Canvas the area tomorrow, talk to neighbors, and pull security footage if there is any. I might be able to give you some rookies to help you talk to the surrounding houses and local businesses, but if the day turns out anything like today, then you can kiss that help g
oodbye.” The older detective shakes his head, his anger bubbling up. For a moment, I think he might be about to yell at Mercer for some reason, but he merely turns and leaves.

  Mercer nods, watching him leave, and then his eyes move back to me.

  We stare at each other, like genuinely no blinking and not moving a muscle stare at each other. I have never had the patience for staring competitions. Kids at my school do them all the time, and although they think they have lasted ages, the average kid would barely last twenty seconds.

  I’m pretty sure neither of us moves for several minutes. I’m not even sure if he blinks. Since I’m a ghost, I suppose it might be possible for me to go a long time without blinking, but how is he doing it?

  In my mind, I’m cursing Santa again, deciding this is his fault. I mean, sure, he did warn me that I wouldn’t get to choose who would be able to see me, but this guy? Detective Insensitive who is working my murder investigation? The guy who just blurted out that I was murdered to my brother without giving him any warning and then watched as he collapsed to the ground? A man I have never even set eyes on while I was alive?

  “Didn’t Jones tell you to go?” another man calls out to Mercer.

  When I look away, only because Mercer does, I instantly wish I hadn’t. The man is wheeling a gurney out of my front door, one that has a body resting on top, zipped up in a long, black body bag, transporting it—me—towards a van.

  “Yeah, I’m just heading off now. How long will it be until I can see this autopsy report?” Mercer asks, sounding nervous.

  “A few days, maybe longer. Heard the captain mention those three new bodies, I’ll definitely try getting hers in before them, but I’m already running behind.”

  Mercer nods at that, and I gasp in shock.

  “Days, if not longer! Is he kidding? You need to get on this now,” I demand. It doesn’t take days to autopsy a body, does it?

  “Call me as soon as you have anything,” Mercer calls out to him as the medical examiner passes us both, heading towards a van along the side of the road. I notice the cameras and news reporters follow him as he goes.

  Mercer rips off his coveralls, revealing a rumpled suit that is covering what I assume is a very lean and athletic body. He drops the coveralls, gloves, and booties into a bin outside the door then storms off down the sidewalk, ignoring the calls of the reporters on the other side being restrained by police tape and uniformed cops.

  I follow after him, already knowing I’m stuck going where he is. While I’m annoyed by this fact, I’m glad to be able to leave my house. I’m not sure I will ever be ready to walk back through there again.

  Mercer gets into a dark sedan. I feel amazed when I open the passenger side door and climb in next to him. I only tried to open it out of habit, and it isn’t until I’m sitting next to a surprised detective that I realize I was able to feel that door and make it move.

  “I opened the door!” I gasp, just as he reaches out and grabs ahold of my arm.

  “You’re real?” he questions, squeezing my arm until it’s almost painful before quickly releasing me.

  “I don’t … I’m dead, I think.” I’m just as surprised as he is. I felt that touch, and when I reach out and push on his shoulder, I feel him just as solidly. I didn’t think ghosts were supposed to feel solid or feel objects and other people. I couldn’t feel Flynn when I tried to console him.

  “What is going on? Who the hell are you?” he demands, glancing out his window at the area surrounding us briefly before his eyes land back on me.

  “I’m Thea Bell—”

  “Don’t bullshit me. I just saw Thea Bell’s murdered body. Try again.”

  I wince at how he again stated I was murdered. It sounds so harsh said out loud; can’t he see that?

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Get out,” he snaps at me, his glare icy, sending chills over me.

  “What?”

  “Get out of my car right now.”

  “Are you serious?” I’m squealing now. This can’t be happening to me.

  “I’m deadly serious. Right now, you’re trespassing on my property. Get the fuck out!”

  I’m shocked by his words, by his tone. But can I really blame him? I’m a freaking ghost, for God’s sake. I can barely believe it, so how is he supposed to? Then there is the fact that I can feel him, and he can feel me. What the hell is that? Is that normal?

  I might be able to understand why he’s so freaked out by my presence, but that doesn’t stop tears from welling up in my eyes. Maybe it’s only a buildup from this entire situation, or maybe I’m just a bit of a wimp when it comes to someone yelling at me. Either way, I feel a tear trail down my face. As I go to wipe it away, I realize something new.

  My legs are disappearing from my view.

  My arm moves to the front of my face, and seconds later, that disappears, too.

  Suddenly, I’m gone, and I fear I no longer exist.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Aiden

  “I’m deadly serious. Right now, you’re trespassing on my property. Get the fuck out!” I yell at her, my mind instantly bringing an image of my grandma to mind. If she were here right now, she wouldn’t hesitate before slapping me upside my head. I have never yelled at a woman before in anger, unless she was a criminal I was chasing and I was yelling at her to stop.

  It is on the tip of my tongue to apologize, especially when I realize I have upset her. But I don’t say anything, because this whole thing is freaking me out. So, when she disappears in front of my eyes, I just about pass out in shock.

  I have seen a lot of weird shit in my life, almost all of it from being a cop, but never anything like this.

  I’m losing it. I’m actually losing it.

  I drive home quickly, noticing a slight shake in my arms. The entire drive, I can’t help repeatedly glancing over at the seat next to me, waiting for her to reappear.

  I touched her arm, and she felt real! She even touched me back, appearing just as shocked. How is any of this possible?

  Pulling into my driveway half an hour and probably a few driving violations later, I stumble into my house. When I step into the living room, I glance around, expecting my brain to conjure that woman up again.

  She’s nowhere to be seen, though, and I’m relieved. Sort of. I’m still clearly going insane.

  I move to my overcrowded desk, files and other crap everywhere, opening my top drawer and emptying the contents onto the floor. Crouching down, I search through every scrap of paper I have kept in there, totaling up to years’ worth of shit, and find what I want—a business card for our department psychologist. I look over the number, pulling my cell out of my back pocket and letting my fingers hover over the dial pad I bring up.

  If I call this number and make an appointment, it’s a clear sign I need help. Which I do, right? Except, spitting out that I’m seeing a dead woman, and she’s talking to me, is an easy way to get benched. I will be pulled from this case, and who knows, maybe I will spend some time in a psych ward. Chances are, I will never be a detective again. At best, I will go back to being a uniform cop directing traffic, mostly because they need all the bodies they can get.

  What if what I saw was nothing more than a combination of me being tired and overworked? What if a good night’s sleep will keep me from ever seeing her again?

  Maybe I’m overreacting.

  I consider my options, deciding to wait and see. If I keep seeing the woman, I will have no choice other than to bench myself. Besides, no one is likely to be at the psychologists’ office at this time of night to answer my call.

  I turn back and lock my front door, having not bothered to do it before when I was in a rush, and then make my way upstairs. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten enough today, and I wonder if that has factored into this momentary slip into insanity. Too tired to be bothered getting something to eat, I instead keep walking upstairs until I’m standing in my bedroom.

  Without thought,
I make my way into the shower, something that is part of my routine after being at a crime scene, and then I collapse onto my incredibly comfortable bed, barely bothering to get under the covers before falling into a much needed deep sleep.

  ***

  As I slowly wake up to my alarm ringing next to me, I realize I smell food. My stomach grumbles as I wonder which one of my neighbors is cooking something delicious with their window open. Occasionally on weekends, I might smell the odd barbeque cooking, but never on a Tuesday morning.

  I open my eyes, unable to ignore my stomach any longer, groaning when I realize I’m going to have to actually get up to make myself breakfast.

  I hardly ever eat breakfast. When I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, the most I seem to manage for breakfast is a large cup of coffee. Perhaps, on the lucky occasion, I might stop off and grab a bagel, like yesterday.

  After last night, I think I might need to make an exception. I need food, and a lot of it. Clearly, I have run my body down too far. I need to start taking care of myself.

  I shove away my covers, and while swinging my legs over the edge of my bed, I stretch my arms up above my head, staring out my window to the sunny day outside. However, I quickly realize my window is not open.

  How on earth do I smell such a strong scent of deliciously cooked food, then?

  “Oh, good, you’re up.” A voice behind me startles the hell out of me.

  I jump up and grab my gun from the top of my nightstand in one quick swoop. I didn’t even bother to lock it away in the safe when I got home last night. Normally, I would be annoyed at myself for such a misstep, but given the intruder standing in my bedroom doorway, I forgo the internal lecture.

  “Who are you?” I narrow my eyes at the woman holding a tray of amazing smelling food that makes my stomach grumble again. She is still in the shadow of my doorframe, but when she steps in, I realize with a groan who I am seeing.