Page 41 of The Ghost and the Graveyard (Knight Games 1)
He chuckled. "No. I was just acting to make it more realistic."
"Good, because I'm starting to enjoy this." I raised another knife. "Gary, you stole my money. All of my money. How could you do that to me? I thought you loved me." I hurled the knife. It passed through Logan's crotch.
"Wow, Grateful, let it all out-"
"Because of you, I lost my home and my self-respect!" I heaved three at his head, one after the other. "Because of you, Gary, I lost my ability to trust. You asshole. I hope you rot in hell." The knife rotated from my fingers and sliced through Gary's image, right where his heart should have been.
Logan didn't move. There were so many knives through his ghostly form, it reminded me of a Road Runner episode when you know the Coyote should be dead from the anvil but he's not. I couldn't help it. I started laughing.
"I think I want you to be you again, Logan."
He stepped away from the wall, shaking off Gary's image like a dog shakes off after a swim. I leaned my hip against the pool table.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yeah. Thank you."
Our eyes met, and there was a connection. A heaviness formed at the center of my chest and my scalp prickled again, the same as when I thought of his name. The closest I could call it was deja vu, like we'd met before or something. He must have felt it too because he leaned toward me, eyes hooded.
When he was close enough to tickle my skin with whatever he was made of, I came to my senses and took a step back. What the hell was that all about? He'd practically been close enough to kiss me. It was like we were both caught in some strange tractor beam.
Logan dematerialized in a flash of light.
"Sorry," his voice echoed around me. "I -I'm not sure what happened there. I think I should go."
A mist hovered above my head. I tilted my face up. "Uh, me neither. Weird though. It's way past my bedtime anyway. See you tomorrow?"
"Well, I'm not going anywhere...I think." The mist filtered up through the vent.
I approached the plywood board and started prying the knives from the wood.
e My Ghost A Name
Back at the homestead, I flopped onto the floral sofa, muscles sandbagging over the overstuffed cushions and still sans panties, which was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. As I chewed my thumbnail while examining my new ceiling, I decided I had no regrets. I was a single, independent woman. Couldn't a girl enjoy oral sex for the sake of pleasure without rushing into a relationship with her partner? We hadn't had intercourse, after all. Nothing life changing going on here. I did not have sex with that man. If that logic was good enough for President Clinton, it was good enough for me.
I moved on to my next fingernail. Why had I fallen so effortlessly into his arms? Every meeting with Rick was like being swept out to sea, like I couldn't control myself around him. Things were going too far, too fast. No matter how "kindred" our souls were, guys like that always had secrets. Oh God, what if he was married? Or in the witness protection program: that would explain why he lived out here in the boonies.
After rolling my aching limbs off the sofa, I poured myself another cup of coffee and decided choosing a name for my ghost would be a welcome distraction. Shit, I was meeting with an honest to God spectral presence in like four hours. My palms began to sweat. I poured my coffee down the sink and ran for the cellar. I needed a drink and not the caffeinated kind.
Moments later, I stood before the bookshelves in the family room, Shiraz in hand, inspecting Prudence Meriwether's sizable collection of classic literature. Seemed like as good a place as any to find a name. I perused the spines, yanked a leather volume from the shelf and read a random page. Somehow, Romeo seemed completely inappropriate. I moved on to the next volume. Heathcliff? Definitely not. Edward, Fitzwilliam, and Darcy? Too stuffy. He didn't look like a renaissance man. I needed something modern but not metrosexual, smart but not stuffy.
Hours later, from the center ring of a circle of open texts, the name popped out of my brain like candy from a Pez dispenser. Logan. I'd always liked the name Logan. But beyond that, something inside me thought Logan might be his real name. My scalp prickled slightly when I tested it on my tongue and warmth swelled behind my ribcage.
With a self-satisfied smile, I returned the books, two by two to the shelf. As I stacked the last one, a cold wind scuttled across the base of my neck. I spun around thinking my ghost had come down early.
"Ahhh!" I jumped backward pressing myself into the bookshelf.
Prudence's torso glowed at me above her smoky tendrils. "Find the key," the ghost demanded, waving me forward. "Find the key and bring the vessel. Claim your inheritance."
"I don't have any key. I'm not who you're looking for!"
Prudence's old lady face produced an animal like growl and her skin peeled back into a fang-filled mask of horror. Her ghoulish form raced toward me. I tucked into a ball circa 1980's elementary school tornado-drill. Icy wind coursed through my body. I hugged my head between my knees and held my breath as not to breathe any old lady molecules in. When I couldn't hold it any longer, I gasped and popped my head up. She was gone.
"Fuck me!" I patted my chest and arms to make sure I wasn't injured, then grabbed my bottom to check if I'd wet myself. Still wasn't wearing any underwear. I reached for my wine glass. Empty. Storming to the counter, I pulled the cork from the bottle and chugged. I took it with me as I climbed the stairs to my room for a hot shower. The thought of running out the door and never coming back did cross my mind. Why didn't I? Logan. I wanted to give him his name. I wanted to hear what he had to say. I wanted to know more about this house and the promised "sorter." You could say I had warring emotions and at that moment curiosity was winning...or else killing the cat.
After a long shower and a cold dinner that consisted of a slice of cheese, a scoop of peanut butter and a handful of radishes from the back of the fridge, I waited for midnight. I drummed my fingers on the kitchen counter, leaned against the dining room table, posed in the foyer as if I was casually leaning against the wall instead of panicking from the inside out.
My ghost arrived exactly at midnight, when I was leaning my butt against the island stool. The attic door creaked open above me, and then a green orb glowed at the top of the stairs. It expanded as it floated toward me, branching out like a star, burning brighter until my ghost stood in front of me. He looked as solid as I did.
