Page 39 of If I Stopped Haunting You

The others had dispersed throughout the castle, and Neil followed in their tracks, meandering lazily down the long hall. He wandered past creepy paintings and eerily watchful busts, pausing in the foyer to regard the painting of the woman in black. She looked almost regal up there, chin tilted just so, every hair in place. Her gray-blue eyes seemed to follow him as he took two steps to his right.

“Holy shit,” he cursed, tilting his head this way and that. There was something uncanny in her narrowed glare. Had it been her in the hall? The more Neil thought about it, the more he believed there was merit to Fanny’s words about a woman lost in this castle for all time. Neil shuddered and pivoted down the hall and into the study, shaking off the feeling as he took in the room. It looked different in the light of day, less morose with the sun blaring in through the tall windows.

As Neil crossed to the large desk, he heard what sounded like a whisper along his neck and the shell of his ear. His head whipped around, eyes scanning the room and the hall beyond, but there was no one.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Of course, it was nothing. He was alone in here.

His lips pressed into a thin line, Neil hurried toward the bookcases in the back. Toward the light—if he could get toward the light of the large windows, everything would be fine because ghosts in this castle seemed to prefer the night. Ghosts didn’t like daytime, right? They liked darkness and shadows. Things just didn’t go bump in the day.

Refocusing, his fingers danced across the spines, eyes scanning over the titles and authors. Fanny was right, these books were almost all newer. Neil could see the line where the shelves and the books had been repaired or replaced by crisper tomes.

But as he scanned, he heard it again, that soft whisper across his skin, so loud it was as if someone gasped it in his ear:Archie. Neil jumped as a red book landed on the ground behind him.

Almost like it had been thrown.

Or pushed.

Or worse,pulled.

Glancing around, Neil stooped and lifted it carefully from the floor, holding it delicately in his hands as he turned it over. It was brick red, the leather cover and spine seemingly empty of its title or author. Frowning, he flipped through the pages, recognizing the neat handwriting.

“This is the same journal,” he murmured, standing. The same one that had fallen at his feet last night. The one he’d put back before truth or dare, as if it were nothing.

He turned through the pages, eyes going wide as he stopped on an entry, his finger shakily tracing the name “Archie.”

And then he heard it again, clearer this time:Archie.

A feminine voice, raspy and aching.

Neil’s phone buzzed. He slammed the book shut and tossed it behind him in surprise. Heart beating frantically, he pulled out his phone, eyes narrowed at the name across his screen. He could ignore it, pretend he didn’t have service in this abandoned corner of Scotland, but she was known to call and call until he answered. His agent did not give up so easily.

Puffing out his cheeks, he settled on the arm of the couch and swiped the screen up. “Hey, Tabitha.”

“How’s my favorite client?” she asked, voice extra perky.

“You say that to all your clients.”

A pause. “Yeah, you got me there. Listen,” she said, speeding up, “you know how I am with phone calls.”

“Hate ’em,” they said in unison.

Tabitha laughed. “I just wanted to check in and see how you are.” A pause. Neil rolled his eyes, focusing on the red book he’d tossed on the floor. “You aren’t answering my emails,” Tabitha chided. “I haven’t heard from you in months, Neil. I wouldn’t call if I weren’t worried.”

“Tabitha,” he said, leaning back, “I’m fine.”

Another pause.

“We both know that’s not true.”

He sighed, tugging on his curls. “Just because I haven’t written anything new doesn’t mean I’m struggling.” He waved his hand in the air. “I have a TV show in the works, for crying out loud. Everything is on track.”

“But no new work.”

“I just turned in my copyedits forOn the Backs of My Ancestors,” Neil hissed.

“Yes,” she drawled, “a book you sold as an option three years ago.”