Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers

by Scott Nicholson

  So this intense, abrupt intimacy really threw me off my game. Diana had never invaded my thoughts, not to any real level of depth, and now here she was in my spirit meat, her ethereal fabric woven into mine, two angels dancing on the same pinhead.

  “We have to talk,” Diana said/thought/screamed/whispered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I made a promise. To make your life a living hell. Why stop right when it’s getting fun?”

  I glanced over at Lee, and she was still scribbling, the Goon With Gun unperturbed. Diana and I appeared to be invisible.

  “Get out of my goddamned head,” I said.

  “Come on, lover. You said I was your soul mate, remember? And now that it’s literal, you’re getting cold feet.”

  “Because my feet have been dead for a couple of days.”

  I tried to shrug her off the way you might shake a pet monkey off your back, but she was duct-taped to my innermost being. The deepest, blackest part of it.

  I recalled something my caseworker had said, about regrets and using up second chances. And the big thing I’d been running from.

  Guilt.

  There, in the mausoleum of my heart, the “Diana” coffin was full of the most maggot-riddled, corpulent putrescence imaginable. I thought I’d walled it off, that it was so safely buried that the stench would never arise.

  True, I hadn’t killed her. She’d taken that particular choice herself, in consultation with whatever cosmic guide she’d consulted. My failure had been in refusing to let her be fully alive.

  No, she hadn’t been Diana Kelly Rognstad Steele, a creature of love and light, one of God’s special children. She hadn’t been a woman, a sacred entity that I nurtured and honored and celebrated. She hadn’t been a temple of all that was valuable and worthy.

  None of that.

  She’d been nothing but a dump for my pain and darkness and selfishness.

  I couldn’t see her, but I felt her, and she took that journey with me, into the deepest hollows of my soul. Her eyes widened in surprise and maybe a little sympathy.

  “Richard,” she whispered, and it was the voice she’d used in her most tender and generous moments, when times had been good, when we were virgins to each other, exploring and brave and not walled off from one another.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and that was enough. For the first time in my life, I’d said it without an inaudible “But...” trailing after it, backloaded with a litany of justifications and excuses for pathetic and cowardly behavior.

  Tears ran down our shared cheeks, and they were as warm as the Pacific Ocean in August, as cool as lovers’ sheets when the sweat is evaporating, as hot as Diana’s cavorting flames of Hell, as icy as the finger of The Grim Reaper when he taps on your shoulder and beckons you home.

  “Did you love me?” she said, and I embraced her as well as I could while wearing the same arms as hers.

  “Yes, and I still do,” I said, and it was true and not at all contradictory. I looked at Lee, who seemed frozen in the real world, hunched over the note, achingly gorgeous and radiating all the light I’d come to appreciate. This love didn’t mean I was cheating or that I was in any way diminished or duplicitous.

  I hadn’t realized in my stinginess that there is not a limited supply of love, and that it flows through us from someplace beyond us, someplace better than us. And we are only conduits, and our job is to simply keep the pipeline open and let it gush instead of tightening the valves through our fears.

  “I love you and I always will,” I said. “Forever.”

  That confession must have leaked through the borders of the dead and living, because Lee’s head lifted. She looked over at the portion of the wall where I was immersed in my dead wife.

  “Finish it,” the goon commanded.

  Lee gave a wry twist of her lip, turning up one corner in a smile that somehow seemed a secret signal. Approval, maybe? Understanding?

  Diana’s warmth flooded me, all the verdant, fecund moistness in which she’d enveloped me countless times, and I felt her rising into the ether.

  “Mission accomplished,” she said. “I’m free now.”

  And the resentment was gone, just like that, swept up on a breeze as I wished her Godspeed and happiness.

  The last echo was her whisper. “I love you, too.”

  Diana’s work was done, but mine wasn’t. I brushed the invisible tears away and took inventory of my powers. Even without flesh, I had carried a heavy weight around inside, and somehow dragging it into the light had killed the poisoned darkness inside. Still, my spiritual batteries had been drained by my stubborn clinging to old ways, past damage, and unrequited guilt.

  I didn’t think I could pull off another materialization. I had to do something, though. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Lee die unfairly, even if dying brought her to my side of the spirit world.

  The goon with the gun had an Errol Flynn mustache and was smart enough to wear gloves. I had no doubt that Lee’s fingerprints were on the gun’s handgrip, and the rifle that had killed me was planted in the closet. I hovered over Lee, sniffing her hair, reading the words she had written:

  The guilt is too much to bear. I’m sorry for what I did to you, Richard. You were the only one I ever loved. And that’s why I couldn’t let you love somebody else. Wherever you are, I’m sure you understand.

  I can’t pay for my sins, but at least I can keep myself from hurting anyone else.

  Lee

  Anyone that knew Lee could see that her handwriting was wrong. She held the pen in a different position than usual, between two fingers instead of one and her thumb. What a smart woman. A gun at her back, and still rational enough to throw some kinks into a near-perfect crime by leaving a puzzle for the handwriting experts.

  “Nothing personal,” said the goon. He even smelled like a lawyer, pungent with cologne and garlic and wine.

  “I hope you fry in Hell,” she said.

  “The only place I’ll be frying is on the beaches of Singapore,” he said, bragging with the confidence of a sleazy crook who thought he was getting away with murder. Make that two murders. And he’d been smart enough to stick a frame on Bailey as well, if worse came to worst. That and millions of simoleons would buy him plenty of time to skip the country.

  Lee put the pen down. “The police are probably watching my apartment. They’ve already questioned me once.”

  “And the pressure has driven you to suicide,” the goon said. “Guilt is a real bitch, isn’t it?”

  She sat back and looked out the window. The sun broke through, and the shadow of a palm tree fell across her face. Her eyes were hard, set in that determined look that I knew so well. She would not give her killer the satisfaction of making her squirm.

  “You know what I can’t forgive you for?” she asked, as if the gunman were a wayward child. “For taking away the only things I wanted to live for. You took my Richard, and now you’re taking me from the father I’ve always wanted to have.”

  “Cry me a river.”

  I concentrated, trying to muster some flesh. If the lawyer and Bailey DeBussey and Bailey’s jar-headed lover enjoyed a life of luxury, they won. If Lee died, I failed. If I couldn’t will myself into action, I lost. And eternal love wasn’t something you got many second chances at.

  Now that I’d cleaned out the crypt inside my sorry soul, I had no desire to let dust gather in the corners.

  I flitted to the goon’s ear and penetrated the canal until I was at his eardrum. Come ON, I thought, Make it happen.

  What did my caseworker say? Faith. It’s all about FAITH.

  I was screaming inside, but I only managed a slight whisper. “Hey, you.”

  The lawyer cocked his head and scratched his ear.

  Faith.

  I looked at Lee’s face and tried again, raising my voice to gnat level. “It’s God, you idiot.”

  “Huh?” The goon glanced around, his mouth parted in confusion.

  “You�
�ve been a very bad boy,” I whispered. Psychic razors slashed at my essence, my batteries pulsed with the last flicker of a charge, but I kept going. “God doesn’t like bad boys.”

  Maybe it wasn’t my place to play God. Maybe they’d hold that against me later. But the administration at The Bright Place set the rules, not me. They’re the ones who gave me power and a mission. And another chance.

  They had taught me to hope. And, to hell with it, I was just a conduit, after all. “God’s not happy with you.”

  The goon shook his head. His gun hand dropped to his side. He’d forgotten Lee in his surprise.

  “God’s going to have to kick your ass now,” I whispered. Lee swung a leg out, making contact and sending the gun clattering across the floor. She exploded from her chair, delivering a flurry of chops and kicks to the poor guy’s neck and stomach. The air rushed out of him as I backed away to enjoy the show.

  Lee was good. Took her thirty seconds to wipe him out, and she didn’t even make him bleed. He would have some nasty bruises, though. She’s merciful, but not to a fault.

  She tied his hands and called the police. I tried to summon myself into flesh, desperate with desire, but I was gone, done, used up. She was already out the door.

  If she had heard my God imitation, she hadn’t recognized my voice.

  ***

  13.

  Later, I drifted through Uhlgren’s office. He was telling the District Attorney about the case. Turns out that Ron Wesmeyer’s lawyer had actually worked his way through law school as a hit man. When he saw a chance to make a two-million-dollar cut, he fell back on old habits, though his ultimate plan was to filch the whole 10 mil himself.

  The lawyer fingered Bailey and her boyfriend. Bailey was the mastermind of the whole setup. I guess smarts run in the family, same as looks. Too bad Bailey wasted hers, unlike her sister.

  That was my only regret. Lee had finally found her family, except one of the bunch had turned rotten. Well, you can’t ask for everything, especially in Los Angeles, and doubly especially around Christmas time. You can, but in my experience, you’re just wasting your prayers. I guess even hope isn’t unlimited.

  I spent most of my remaining time hanging around Lee’s place. It was a joy just watching her daily rituals, her karate routines, her laundry, her visits with her father. They were getting along great. She was going to be just fine.

  I only had one more piece of unfinished business on this Earth.

  ***

  14.

  I had a beautiful funeral. I didn’t know I had so many friends. It was good to see Wesmeyer by Lee’s side. The priest’s eulogy was so inspiring that you’d think I was up for sainthood.

  Lee put a gorgeous bouquet on my chest, white roses, bluets, and yellow lilies, all grown in her garden. The morticians had done a swell job. I looked as if I were sleeping and visions of sugarplums were dancing in my head. As the mourners filed out and got into their cars to drive to the cemetery, Lee went back to my coffin for a last look.

  Faith.

  It’s about faith, a belief in right and wrong and justice and hope and love. Love, as in caring about something bigger than your own sorry hide, but also believing in yourself enough so that you had something to give. No, not just believing in yourself, but believing in your piece in the great puzzle, something that fits but not always to the shape you like. Somebody or something, maybe some grinning guru in a corner office of The Bright Place, had a better plan. I drew strength from those things. I could do it. I could live again, if only for a moment.

  In the last pew sat Miss Titanic. She grinned, then frowned and pointed to an invisible wristwatch, then held up five fingers. Five minutes left to be dead and alive.

  I spent the last of my energy incorporating myself. Lee’s moist eyes widened, but she didn’t scream. She’s not the kind of lady that gets thrown all out of kilter over a little thing like the ghost of her dead lover. Or maybe her father had told her about my visit.

  “Hiya, honey,” I said, trying to be suave, which is kind of hard for a corpse.

  “Richard?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re...you’re...”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said, and more tears rolled down her pretty cheeks. I didn’t think you could squeeze that much water out of a person. It made me feel good, in a strange way.

  “Listen, babe, I don’t have much time.” I wiped her tears away, glancing behind me to make sure the priest didn’t have his convictions rocked by my appearance. Only one ghost was sanctioned by the church, and that was the Holy Ghost, not Richard Steele. Fine by me. I had other temples to walk through.

  The priest was occupied bottling holy water or something, so I went on with what I needed to say. “Here’s the deal. I didn’t say this as much as I should have. But I love you. Forever.”

  More tears. This time they were mine.

  Ghost tears are cold, serious stuff.

  Lee gripped my hands. I stammered, shivering, my earthly molecules about to disintegrate for the final time.

  “I don’t mind if you find another guy,” I said.

  When she shook her head, I squeezed her hands. “You might not feel like it for a long time, but you might someday. I’m just asking one thing.”

  “Anything,” she said, the heartache plain in her voice.

  “Save the last dance for me, will you?”

  She nodded, laughing and crying at the same time.

  With a last effort of will, I kissed her hard enough for her to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating. My lips went numb, then my fingers, then all my borrowed flesh.

  “By the way,” I whispered. “Thank you for the flowers. You throw a lovely funeral.”

  Then I was mist, scattered on the winds of time and the universe, gone to whatever this nice bright place is.

  I like to think it’s heaven.

  I’m an optimist, you know.

  THE END

  Return to Table of Contents

  ###

  When artists gather at a remote mountain estate for a retreat, they are unaware that their energy is feeding something unwholesome. Sculptor Mason Jackson and dying parapsychologist Anna Galloway must uncover the dark secrets of Korban Manor before their spirits are trapped forever.

  CREATIVE SPIRIT

  By Scott Nicholson

  Copyright ©2003 Scott Nicholson

  Scott’s Amazon Author Central page

  Table of Contents

  “If you can dream, and not make dreams your master . . .”

  —Rudyard Kipling

  “I’ll eat your dreams.”

  —Ephram Elijah Korban

  For my mother, Delores, who sees

  1898

  If the fire is out, I’m dead.

  As Sylva ran through the dark forest, the laurel branches slapped at her and wooden talons raked through her long, flowing hair.

  But it wasn’t her fault. Momma had a fever and Daddy was off the mountain with a load of apples, Sylva had to take care of her two little brothers and she was only sixteen and stuck on this idiot mountain and life shouldn’t be so unfair.

  She stumbled over a root and nearly fell. She grabbed up the hem of her coarse linen skirt and ran on through the trees. Briars whipped at her knees. It was only half a mile, but on November nights it felt like forever, as if the Korban estate expanded to join the darkness.

  And the darkness welcomed it. But she couldn’t think about that. The fire was her job and the family depended on Korban. All the old families depended on him, especially the ones who had sold their land to him.

  She was grateful for the high wedge of moon, but the moon sometimes revealed things she didn’t want to see. Her breath was silver in its light as she whispered little spells of safekeeping.

  The manor seemed to be slipping farther away from her, as if the snake-belly trail had gained new curves. But at last she emerged onto the spread of pastures leading
to the lawn. She could barely glance at the house, which stood black and brooding against the Blue Ridge Mountain sky. But she had to check the window.

  Dark.

  She was late.

  Sylva sprinted to the house, her heart lodged in her throat and her pulse hammering. She gathered some logs from the firebox and crept up the back stairs. Margaret was away on a trip somewhere, to a place called Baton Rouge, fancy-sounding. If only Sylva could hurry, maybe no one would notice her tardiness.

  It’s just a silly little fire. It ain’t like anybody’s going to freeze to death.

  She tiptoed down the hall, floorboards groaning at her failed stealth. She paused at his door. If she knocked, she’d be found out. Best to say nothing, start the fire, and sneak out again.

  The bedroom was dark. She was afraid to light a lantern because, if any guests were visiting, one of them might look in. Sylva closed the door behind her, hoping the embers still cast enough glow for her to see. But the hearthstones were cold and the room was filled with the pungent stench of the spent fire.

  Kneeling, she put the wood on the floor and groped for the newspapers and the tin box of matches that she kept beside the poker. Even sheltered from the cold night air, she felt smothered as if by the waters of a deep dream, and the smallest movement took a great effort. The matches rattled when she knocked over the container. She balled up some pages of the newspaper and stuffed them under the fire irons. As she did, a harsh, low sound came from somewhere in the room.

  Sylva struck a match and it flared briefly and died. In that split second of light, she had seen movement out of the corner of her eye. Trying to hurry, though gravity worked against her, she struck another match. A winter wind blew across the room and extinguished the flame before she could touch it to the paper.

  Why are the windows open?