Tormented: A Bully Romance Anthology

by BBB Publishings

  I blinked rapidly, trying to understand. “But… I’m dead.”

  He shrugged. “If I don’t dig your grave, it doesn’t matter. You can’t pass to the other side.”

  “But… I’m hurt. I’m dead.” I knew I was repeating myself, but my brain was stuck on that one irrefutable fact.

  Chuckling, he shook his head and brought the shovel up to rest on his shoulder. “I’ve got better use for you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  He turned and started to walk away. Dark mist gathered around him, winding up his legs. “Use your rage, child. Embrace your dark side. You’re one of us now.”

  “Us? Who?”

  His voice rolled toward me as if from a great distance. “The Vicious.”

  I started after him, but the swirling fog thickened into cold darkness that shoved me backward. Windmilling, I fell, waiting for the ground to slam into me. I screamed, a thin, high sound that made me wince.

  Still falling. Darkness enfolded me, cold and final as the grave.

  Chapter Two

  I tried to lift my head, but the pain made me groan. It felt like someone had whacked me in the head with a sledgehammer. There was a nasty taste in my mouth. The world’s worst morning breath mixed with copper and rotten garbage.

  Blinking, I forced my eyes open.

  There was a dark, dried bloodstain on the carpet. Surrounding my head.

  Heart pounding, I tried to lie still, but my muscles twitched with alarm, an instinctive urge to jump up and flee. Memories snapped through my head like jagged shards of broken glass.

  Michael, pounding on the door. Cheap wood splintering. His face twisted in an ugly sneer. His shoulders hunched up like a gorilla as he cocked his big fist and punched me in the face. His giant foot crashing down on my head. My back.

  Jerking in agony at each memory, I shuddered and gasped. Tears poured down my cheeks. I should be dead.

  I had been dead.

  The man, dressed in black, digging the grave at the crossroads. Had I dreamed him while passed out? That was the only thing that made sense.

  Panting softly, I braced my hands on either side of me and slowly pushed upright. The bloodstains on the carpet were a brutal reminder of what had happened to me. So much blood.

  Sitting upright, I looked at my hands. I distinctly remembered throwing my arms up to shield myself. Michael had seized my right hand and crushed it in his fist. I’d felt the bones breaking as he’d twisted my arm around and shoved me to the floor.

  But my fingers weren’t swollen or even bruised. They were straight, though blood had dried around my fingernails and in the grooves of my knuckles. Gingerly, I wiggled each finger and slowly closed my hand into a fist.

  I felt my lips. I’d spit blood. Tattered, my lips had smashed against my teeth, his fist knocking some loose. But they felt fine now. My teeth weren’t missing or wobbly. I ran my fingers up to my eyes. They weren’t swollen. My nose was straight, not smashed. Though I could feel crusty blood on my skin.

  Maybe I was a ghost who thought I was still alive. How could I remember each of the horrible injuries Michael had given me—the physical memory of pain taking my breath—but still be aware and functioning?

  My cell phone rang, making me jump. I’d tried to call 911 but Michael had smacked me so hard that I’d lost my grip on the phone and it’d skidded under the chair I’d picked up from Goodwill. I crawled over to the ratty green recliner that was surprisingly comfortable and swiped my hand beneath it until I managed to scoop out my phone.

  It was the diner. Crap. I was probably late.

  But if I was dead…

  Hesitantly, I answered the call, not really sure they’d be able to hear me. “Hello?”

  “Yo, Karissa, are you going to show today or what?” Annika asked.

  “Um, yeah. I guess. Can you hear me?”

  She laughed like I’d told a joke. “Loud and clear. Make it snappy. Rog is pissed you’re late, but we’re getting slammed. Bat those big eyes of yours at him and smile sweetly. He’ll forgive you.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Make it ten.” She hung up without waiting for my answer.

  I sat there a minute, my dazed zombie brain so fucking confused I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I looked around at my apartment. The bloodstains. The door hanging off its hinges and cracked like an elephant had crashed through it.

  This had been my first home by myself. A place I’d been so proud of, even if it was small and cheap and shitty. It was mine. My sanctuary, a place I could breathe without fear and worry. I might only have a one-room studio with a tiny twin bed, but it was my fucking bed. Where I could sleep without the fear of being groped awake, or worse, not waking up in time to escape Michael’s attention before he was already fucking me.

  I’d died here. I knew that.

  Something—someone—had sent me back.

  My phone dinged, making me jump again. Annika texted me, “5 min.”

  Shit. I scrambled to my feet, raced for the bathroom to wash away the blood, and dragged on my rumpled uniform. I scooped up my phone and key out of habit. Though staring at the broken door, I had no reason to lock it.

  On a whim, I said out loud, “Hey, if you’re listening, I could use some help getting the door fixed. And the blood out of the carpet.”

  If the diner was getting slammed, maybe I’d actually make enough in tips to pay my late rent. I hurried down the hallway for the stairs. It seemed darker than usual. Creepier.

  My nerves jangled with alarm when I saw a man leaning against the wall. Dressed in black jeans and a hoodie pulled up over his head, he nodded as I passed. At least he wasn’t wearing an old-fashioned suit or top hat. I couldn’t really make out his face beneath the shadowed hood. I didn’t say anything, jogging down the stairs so quickly that I almost tripped near the bottom.

  A hand steadied me. Ducking my head, I murmured, “Thanks,” and kept on walking. But the fingers tightened on my arm.

  Stomach churning, I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the man walking beside me. He was almost as tall as the gravedigger, but thinner. He wore a black suit and white button-down shirt—but they were modern-day styles, at least. His face… was a skull.

  Just like the gravedigger’s.

  Chills raced down my spine, and I jerked to a halt.

  His voice was harsh. “You’re one of us.”

  I pulled on my arm, trying to get free of him. But just like Michael, he was strong. Freakishly strong. My heart pounded so hard I felt faint and my skull ached along a jagged line down to my right ear. I was pretty sure it was a fracture from Michael’s kicks.

  The stranger stepped closer, pulling me up against him. Panic swept through me in a torrent. I opened my mouth to scream, so he clamped his fingers over my lips.

  “Shut up,” he growled, low and mean, leaning down over me. At least this close I could tell that the skull was just white makeup over his skin. He wasn’t some kind of walking, talking skeleton. “Listen. We don’t have much time. We have work to do.”

  I managed to find my voice, though it was weak and shaky. “I’m headed to work. I’m late.”

  His lip curled slightly. “The work of the living no longer applies to you, sweetheart.”

  Instinct took over. The same instincts that had kept me alive for so long when married to a serial abuser. I kept my voice light and gave him my sweetest smile. It was always better to be soft and quiet without riling the man’s ego or anger. “I’m late for work. They’re expecting me. Please let me go.”

  This man wasn’t Michael, though. He scowled fiercely. “You don’t know. You don’t know what you are now.”

  “I know I’m late for work.” I finally managed to twist out of his grip. “Please excuse me.”

  Fleeing for the exit, I didn’t pause to look back over my shoulder. I didn’t want to make him think I was flirting in any way, trying to get him to follow me.

  He called after me. “Y
ou’re ours now.”

  I quickened my steps, brushing past another man who stood at the door. He sucked in a deep breath as I passed, and I swore I heard him whisper my name. But that was impossible. I’d never seen these men before.

  I ran the five blocks to the diner, hauling ass like the devil himself was after me.

  Maybe he was.

  Chapter Three

  I hit the door into The Greasy Spoon at a dead run and went to work. Tables were stacked up with dirty dishes. Customers crowded the waiting area, grumpy and hungry. Slinging platters up under the heat lamps, Roger, cook and owner, scowled at me. But thankfully we were too busy for him to do more than note my tardiness.

  I cleared and wiped tables for a solid thirty minutes and hustled orders while Annika took care of the existing customers. She shoved a bunch of rumpled small bills in my pocket as she headed back to the kitchen.

  “We’re pretty busy for a Friday morning.”

  Tall and blonde with an athletic build, she gave me a strange look over her shoulder. “It’s Saturday morning, hun.”

  I stared at her, my mind chugging frantically. I’d worked a twelve-hour double shift on Thursday. When I’d left, people were standing around outside the church across the street after their weekly AA meeting. So it’d been about eight in the evening. Maybe a bit later.

  I’d been showering when I heard the pounding on my door, and then Michael had busted in.

  Had I really lost an entire day? Had I lain on my carpet dead for… Mentally, I tried to count the hours, but I kept stumbling over the fact that it was Saturday.

  “You okay?” Eyes narrowed, Annika stepped closer and scrutinized my face. She gripped my chin and tipped my face up toward hers. “Hey, is that blood?”

  Laughing awkwardly, I tugged my chin free and waved her off. “I woke up with a bloody nose this morning. I’ve been under the weather, so I forgot what day it was.”

  “Guess that explains why you didn’t call in yesterday,” she replied slowly.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged, focusing on the hot plates waiting for my table. “Guess I was out of it. No wonder Roger’s pissed.”

  “Roger’s beyond pissed,” he growled, slamming a plate down so hard the greasy sunny-side-up egg almost skidded off entirely. “Don’t know why I even bother giving you another chance.”

  I tried to smile like Annika had suggested, but it just wasn’t in me to flirt and put on an act. I’d pretended that everything was okay for so long…

  But everything was not okay. It hadn’t been okay for years. I couldn’t lie any longer. Not after what Michael had done to me.

  I died. I remembered it so clearly. But here I was getting yelled at by my boss for a job I hated. And for what? Some shitty tips for my equally-shitty apartment?

  I turned and froze. Gasped. Dropped the plates.

  The man in the hoodie stood just feet away, grinning at me as if he’d heard my thoughts. His face was painted with a skull, just like the other man I’d seen at my apartment.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Roger screamed. “Get that shit cleaned up before someone slips and sues me for everything I’ve got.”

  Automatically, I dropped to my knees and started gathering up the broken plates. Annika grabbed a mop and a trash can to help. She gave me another worried look. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I shuddered. I’m the ghost. I’m fucking dead!

  I forced myself to peek back up to see if he was still there. The man wriggled his eyebrows at me and licked his lips.

  Hoarsely, I whispered, “Do you see him?”

  She looked over her shoulder and scanned the dining room. The man in the hoodie stepped closer, right in front of Annika. He leered at her and wiggled his hips, dancing slightly in place.

  “Who? Is that shithead ex of yours bothering you again?”

  She couldn’t see him. But she could see me. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

  “It makes perfect sense,” he whispered in a gravelly voice that sent chills screeching down my spine. “We’re not of this world. But you are. That’s why we need you.”

  I’d seen enough paranormal television shows to know how to handle shit like this. The more attention I paid this—spirit, ghost, or demon, whatever he was—the stronger he’d get. Without looking up at him again, I said in my firmest voice, “Leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Well, I never.” Annika huffed. “I’m just trying to help. Some friend you are.”

  She shoved the mop at me and stomped off, leaving me to clean up the mess.

  That’s fine. I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone.

  “Yeah, right, sweetheart.” The low voice floated over my shoulder. I recognized it as the man in the suit, who’d spoken to me at the base of the stairs. “You need us as badly as we need you.”

  I didn’t look at him. I refused to acknowledge his presence.

  But if they could hear my thoughts…

  I needed to shield, right? I should be able to protect myself. But how? I’d never really believed in this metaphysical shit. It’d been entertaining television shows or exciting fiction. Not anything real.

  Mopping up the greasy egg yolk that had smeared on the black-and-white tiles, I tried to build a tower in my mind. I imagined thick concrete walls reinforced with steel. No windows. Just a grim tower in the center of my mind to protect me. I focused on it intently until the rest of the world faded away, even Roger’s bellows about clumsy waitresses.

  :Still here, sugar,: a voice whispered inside my head, echoing all around in the safe, still tower I’d built.

  The hoodie skull-face man. Razorblades grating on bone. Fucking lot of good shielding had done me. Though maybe I was just crap at it.

  Shivering, I started to stand, and something pressed against my back. A solid heat, not ghostly and vague. His warm breath fluttered against my ear. The man in the suit didn’t put a hand on me this time—he just pressed his entire body against my back. :My name’s Cross. Hoodie skull-face prefers you just call him Baron. You can call the one you’re afraid to look at Cem.:

  The hint of sly amusement in his words prodded me to look up and glance toward the exit. Somehow I’d known the third man would be there at the door, the same way he’d been at my apartment building. Keeping me in? Keeping things out? I had no idea.

  My breath sawed in and out, too loudly and unevenly, betraying my fear. He looked almost exactly like the gravedigger at the crossroads, with the same top hat and black tuxedo coat, though he didn’t seem as tall. His hat wasn’t decorated with ivory beads and feathers—but rather a wide purple ribbon. Beneath his coat, he also wore a purple vest heavily embroidered in gold and sequins.

  “What are you?” I whispered. “What do you want?”

  “We’re aspects of the Guèdè, and we want you.”

  Chapter Four

  They’re not real, I told myself as I worked. I refused to look at them, even when they spoke to me. I knew their voices now, whether aloud or in my head. At least two of them. The one by the door—I refused to even think of his name—hadn’t spoken to me at all.

  I didn’t want to know why. I didn’t want to know anything more than I already did. It was dangerous. I knew that much. In this city, everybody knew enough about its voodoo history to be wary.

  I’d never played with a Ouija board or gone to Marie Laveau’s tomb. I didn’t seek out the haunts or own a set of tarot cards. I couldn’t even remember a family story that hinted at a supernatural past, though I hadn’t talked to Mom in years. So why had these entities attached themselves to me?

  Annika went home, giving me a dirty look on her way out the door. She breezed past the man at the door without any hesitation. She didn’t sense anything amiss. I dragged my gaze away quickly and focused on wiping the table.

  “Miss,” a woman said, annoyance creeping into her voice. Because by god why should she wait one fucking second while I finished my task before heading to the
cash register?

  I put on my best customer-service smile and hurried over to take her ticket. She’d bought one order of all-you-can-eat pancakes and fed three kids on them. Not that me or Annika had said a word to her about it. Who knew what her situation was?

  But then she pulled a gold card out of her Louis Vuitton wallet and charged the cheap-ass diner meal. Mentally shaking my head, I ran her card and handed her the receipt. She signed it and stomped off to rustle her unruly kids while her husband brought up the car.

  I glanced down at the ticket and fought back an inaudible growl. No tip. That fucking cow. Not even a round-up, which would have sucked, but it was better than nothing. Meanwhile, her kids had destroyed the booth, and I’d have to scrub every inch to get up the syrup and sticky finger prints.

  Grinding my teeth, I grabbed the cleaning bucket and headed to the booth.

  A shrill, high-pitched scream drew me up short. I whirled to the door, my heart racing. The youngest child, a little girl of three or four, stared at the man at the door as if she could actually see him.

  It’s a trap, my mind shrilled as desperately as the little girl. I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t give them any more power than they’d already gleaned from me.

  But I couldn’t look away as the man in the tuxedo coat squatted down by the girl. She stared into his skull face, eyes wide, while her oblivious mother hurried out the door.

  “Such a shame.” The hoodie man snapped his fingers, and the salt shaker on the nearest table toppled over and rolled toward the edge. It fell to the tiled floor in a clatter, making me jump. “Children are so easy to manipulate but provide little use in the end. Though even a terrified little girl is better than nothing when the Guèdè have work to complete.”

  He walked up the aisle between the tables, hands at his sides with his fingers outspread. Napkins swept to the floor. Someone’s drink turned over. Cups rattled in their saucers.

  “Fucking hell.” The patron with the spilled drink shot up out of his seat, shaking a wet cell phone. “This is brand new. I’ll speak to your manager about this, young lady.”