Chapter Eleven

 

In the dream I was a child again, and the old woman was back. Her coal black eyes were wide and her expression unhinged, her pale skin almost blue against her long dark hair. My little brother Nico clung to me, whimpering, and I felt powerless to protect him.

The woman made me drink a thick bitter liquid, and it dribbled down my chin, soaking into my T-shirt. Guilt made it hard to breathe. I’d stupidly gotten Nico into trouble too. I’d just wanted to pet her puppy. She’d promised we could play with her puppy if we helped her carry her bag of groceries home.

“No one in Viridia is strong enough to fight him,” she hissed, grabbing a handful of my hair. I cried out as she yanked hard. “Best if you were never born, child. He can’t use you if you aren’t here in this world.”

“I want to go home,” Nico wailed, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

The woman turned her ugly gaze on him. “Shut up. Shut up!”

I held him tight, terror ripping through me at the thought she’d hurt him.

“Please,” I whispered, “Just let us go home.” My stomach was burning again. Every time she made me drink that horrible concoction, I got a belly ache. I pushed Nico gently off of me and crawled to the dirty corner of the basement. Retching violently, I was covered in sweat as I heaved up the contents of my stomach.

“No,” the old lady screamed. “You must keep it in your belly for it to work.”

Body shaking, I began to black out. Behind me Nico continued to sob, and I slumped onto the cold cement, moaning. I’d failed him. I’d failed Nico so many times. No wonder he hated me. No wonder—

I jerked awake, every inch of me soaked with perspiration. I was breathing hard, and the sound of Nico’s sobs still rang in my ears. Outside came the noise of the maid’s cart rumbling past. My blurry gaze focused on the faded print of pink roses hung on the wall over the bed, and the air conditioner rattled to life.

Hot tears spilled from my eyes, and I rolled over, pressing my face into the flat pillow. I gritted my teeth, trying to get control of my emotions. I hadn’t had a dream about the old woman in years. How could she still terrify me? I was a grown man, but the memory of her reduced me to a sniveling seven-year-old again.

I sat up and roughly wiped my face with my shaking hands. “Fuck. Me.”

I threw back the covers and stumbled into the bathroom. I used the toilet and then stripped and got in the shower. The hot water loosened my tense muscles and opened up my lungs. I stayed in the shower until the tips of my fingers wrinkled. I got out and dried off with a cotton towel so thin I could see through it.

The Rosewood Motel wasn’t high end, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It wasn’t the sort of place I wanted to walk barefoot. Even in shoes, the rug didn’t seem to want to let go of the bottom of my footwear. There was also a distinctive scent of old tobacco and possibly weed.

Once I was dressed, I went downstairs and consumed a free, stale bagel and bitter over-brewed coffee. I’d already booked the motel for two nights, so I didn’t have to check out yet. As I walked to my car, my cell rang. A tiny, pathetic part of me hoped maybe it was Ian calling to check on me, but my stomach dropped when I saw it was Detective Monroe. Uneasiness shifted through me.

Had he already figured out the old man had called me while in the hospital?

Blowing out a shaky breath, I answered. “Hello?”

“Mr. Winston? This is Detective Monroe.”

“Right. How are you?”

“Fine.” He sounded distracted and rushed. “I need you to come in to the station today to have a little chat. Does that sound like something you could do?”

I closed my eyes, willing my pulse to slow down. “Sure. When?”

“How about an hour from now?” His voice was steely, and I didn’t get the feeling the visit was negotiable.

“I can do that.”

“Great. See you then.” He hung up.

I scowled at my phone and then tucked it away in my jeans. I had a ton of shit to do today.

First on the list was cleaning up my wreck of a house. I’d texted Claire the night before to see if she’d come over to help me later. So far I hadn’t heard back. She was no doubt busy with one of her many men. I really didn’t have anyone else to call for help besides Claire. I sure as hell wasn’t going to call Ian. Just thinking about him made my stomach hurt.

At least I still had my laptop. By some miracle, it hadn’t been destroyed the night before when the house had been tossed. It had ended up under the bed, but it still worked. That meant I could continue serving my online clients. I didn’t have any in-person consultations scheduled for the week, but eventually I would.

What was I going to do then? The house made me nervous. I didn’t feel right working there for now, and I definitely didn’t want to live there. I didn’t feel safe. But staying in a motel, even a cheap one, could add up fast. Claire would let me sleep on her sofa if needed, but I hated putting her out like that. No way could I do that long term.

The obvious solution was to do some kind of exorcism of the property. But exorcising spirits wasn’t my area of expertise. Not to mention purging the house of spirits was complicated for me. If I worked as a waiter or stock broker, maybe I could go that route. But I made my living inviting spirits to actually visit me at my home-slash-shop. I couldn’t do anything that would discourage spirits from coming to talk to their loved ones.

However, I also couldn’t live in that house with some evil entity running the show. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I should do. I certainly didn’t have the funds to relocate my shop. Plus, if the spirit was after me personally, moving wouldn’t necessarily solve my problem.

I needed to talk to an expert on the subject, but the only other “professional” in town was Weston Bartholomew. No way was I going to ask that fake for advice. I also couldn’t bring myself to reach out to anyone online. Even though I myself helped people on the internet, many sites were scams simply stealing credit card information. I didn’t want to risk that happening. Things were dire enough without being a victim of identity theft.

The library seemed to be my best option for research. I had some time to spare before my meeting with Detective Monroe, so I decided to go. Our local library actually had a healthy inventory of books on the supernatural. I’d probably be able to dig up some reliable information on how to exorcise a specific malevolent spirit from my home. Maybe there was a way to do a partial cleansing. With that in mind, I drove to the old library.

The Fox Harbor library had served as the heart of town for generations, offering both residents and visitors a sanctuary for learning and discovery. The old Victorian building was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence adorned with intricate seashell patterns. Inside the gate there was a lush garden, maintained by volunteers, where roses, lavender, and wildflowers thrived, adding a burst of color and sweet scent to the briny ocean air.

I made my way up the weathered stone path, listening to the sound of seagulls and distant waves blending into a pleasant and familiar melody. The exterior of the quaint structure was sun-bleached brick, with tall arched windows featuring delicate stained glass panels depicting fishermen hauling in their bountiful catch. Above the entrance there was a carved wooden sign bearing the name of the library in elegant calligraphy. The handles on the heavy, oak double doors, were miniature replicas of weathered ship’s wheels.

As I approached the doors, yellow crime scene tape flapping in the wind near a small building to the side of the library caught my eye. My admiration for the beauty of the old building evaporated as a chill zipped down my spine.

With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten about the murder that had occurred here. That tape no doubt marked the spot where the headless corpse had been found. I stared at the area, goosebumps rising on my flesh. What a brutal death that must have been. It made me sick just thinking about it.

Shuddering, I hurried inside the big doors. Once in the building, I felt calmer. I was met with the familiar scent of aged paper and lemon-polished wood. The main room was a spacious, high-ceilinged chamber, with a coffered ceiling and rows of ornate brass chandeliers. The room was bathed in natural light, filtering through the expansive arched windows, which offered views of the nearby coastline. Comfortable leather armchairs and plush sofas were scattered around reading nooks, inviting visitors to lose themselves in the pages of their favorite books. There were also a few ancient desktop computers for the patrons to use that had been donated years ago. Odds were they still ran Windows 7 operating system, but they were better than nothing.

Despite being surrounded by so much history and charm, all I could think about was the crime scene tape outside. Murder was rare in Fox Harbor. It wasn’t unheard of, but if someone did decide to do their neighbor in, it was usually your basic knock them over the head or shoot them sort of crime. Headless corpses were something new and heinous for our little town. It only added to my anxiety that the police seemed to have no suspects yet. That could only mean that the head-chopping maniac was still on the loose.

Sighing, I glanced over and met the amiable gaze of Mrs. Zoelle, the librarian. Mrs. Zoelle was a slight woman in her forties with bright red hair and dangling earrings. She was the antithesis of the stereotypical librarian found in movies and books. She didn’t wear prim wool skirts and high-necked blouses or put her hair up in a prudish bun. She preferred low cut tops and too short skirts. She was bubbly and chatty, and more often than not, people trying to study had to shush her, not the other way around.

She waved at me when she saw me. “Hello, Lorenzo,” she called out brightly. “Can I help you with anything?” There were a few irritable glances thrown our way as she finished speaking.

I hurried over to her so that she’d lower her voice. “Is the occult section still in the same place as usual?” I whispered.

In most libraries, you’d never need to ask if things had been moved, but Mrs. Zoelle had a unique way of doing things. She liked to switch things up from time to time. A technique grocery stores used effectively to get shoppers to discover different flavored chips and new and improved laundry detergents, but not something the citizens of Fox Harbor appreciated when trying to find research materials. Mrs. Zoelle also wasn’t a fan of the Dewey Decimal System. She felt its focus on numbers was impersonal and unengaging. She preferred to personally help people find things. Unfortunately, more often than not, that was more like the blind leading the blind.

She nodded. “Yep. All those books are still in the Lobster Den. That reminds me, I need to dust in there.”

“If you want to hand me a duster, I could get started on that,” I teased.

Her laughter rang through the room, and I winced. “Oh, you’re so funny, Lorenzo.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knuckles. “I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’re still single.”

I grimaced. “I like being single.” For some reason Mrs. Zoelle always seemed overly concerned with my relationship status. I wasn’t sure if she did that with all her unattached visitors or if I gave off some pathetic vibe I wasn’t aware of.

She arched one penciled brow. “Do you?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Don’t you ever get lonely?”

“Not really,” I lied. I had my moments where I felt depressed and isolated. But for the most part, I was okay with being alone. I pushed away memories of last night when Ian had been in my bed. I’d definitely enjoyed my time with him, but that ship had sailed.

She leaned even further over the mahogany counter, her eyebrows knitted. “Seriously? I hate going out to eat alone. And movies, they’re the worst without a date.”

I smiled politely. “I guess.” I took a half step back, preparing to make my escape. “Anyway . . . I’m just gonna go—”

“You know, I have a friend I could set you up with. He’s divine. Drives a nice car too, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Oh, God. Please no.

I laughed awkwardly. “I’m good. Thank you for thinking of me though.”

She pouted. “You don’t want to meet him?”

“Not really.” I added quickly, “I’m sure he’s very nice. I’m just happy being single for now.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “You sure? He’s got a great personality.”

“I’m sure.”

She looked disappointed, but then she abruptly changed the subject. “Did you see the crime scene tape out front?”

I nodded, resisting the urge to shiver. “Yes. Creepy.”

“Thank goodness the library was closed when that poor soul lost his life . . . and you know, his head.” She laughed awkwardly.

“Definitely. Do you feel safe here alone at night?”

“Oh, I’m rarely alone. There are always a few stragglers.” She hugged herself, looking around. “Of course, maybe one of my regulars is the killer.”

“God, that’s very true.” I didn’t want to blow Mrs. Zoelle off, but if I was going to make my appointment with Detective Monroe, I needed to get moving. I took a step away from her desk, preparing to leave. “Good seeing you—”

She leaned on her elbows, apparently settling in for a nice long chat with me. “Maybe I should buy a rape whistle or something.”

Gritting my teeth with frustration, I said, “Yeah, that’s probably not a bad idea.”

“I saw one on Amazon the other day—”

Thankfully, she was cut off when the phone rang. Frowning, she went to answer it.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I headed down the main walkway that led to the smaller chambers dedicated to specialized subjects. The Coral Room was for local history, the Mermaid Lagoon for maritime lore, and the Lobster Den was for all things occult, etc. Unfortunately, the Lobster Den was at the far end of the building, so it was a long walk.

I glanced at my watch and picked up my pace. I still had to meet with Detective Monroe, and time was ticking. My shoes quietly scraped the polished floor as I made my way toward the Lobster Den. I glanced down the long rows of floor to ceiling books on my way, and the further I went into the bowels of the library, the less crowded the rows were with people.

When I reached the Lobster Den, I pushed into the small room through the weighty oak door. It smelled musty, and I suspected Mrs. Zoelle truly hadn’t dusted in there in quite some time. The room was longer than it was wide with rows of oak shelves. The walls were adorned with paintings of sailors standing over wire-mesh traps filled with lobsters, and some of the paintings were simply illustrations of lobsters all on their own. Brass wall sconces dotted the walls, but it was the weakly flickering florescent lights overhead that actually lit the room enough to see what you were doing.

I scoured the shelves, looking for anything to do with exorcising spirits from a building. Most of the modern books seemed to be written by religious zealots who thought all things psychic were evil. Their pious condemnation of psychics reminded me a lot of my parents.

Because of the undependability of the information, I’d never researched much about psychic things, relying only on my natural ability. There had been that short time where I’d talked with Aunt Helen. But she’d mainly been focused on helping me to control my gift, so that I could learn to quiet the voices when needed. She hadn’t delved into anything like protecting against evil spirits. She had helped me, though, mostly because she’d had such a positive view of my gift. My parents had shamed me, but Aunt Helen had taught me to accept myself.

I reached into my hoodie pocket to check the time on my phone, and grimaced. I was going to be late for my interview with Detective Monroe if I didn’t leave now. As I pushed my phone back into my sweatshirt, the back of my hand brushed against something cool and smooth lodged deep at the bottom of the pocket.

Frowning, I tugged the item out. In my palm lay a green stone about three inches in diameter. I first thought it was the stone Nico had given me, but it was slightly smaller, flatter, and the color more of a brilliant moss green. The light danced across the smooth surface, radiating an energy and vitality that made the stone seem almost alive. I shivered as the stone vibrated against my flesh.

“Where did you come from?” I muttered, smoothing my thumb over the gem.

I stood, and as I did so, the room seemed to shift beneath my feet. I grabbed onto the table, feeling lightheaded. I folded my fingers around the stone so I didn’t drop it, and my skull prickled as I began to tremble uncontrollably. Bewildered, I blinked, trying to clear my head. Was I having a stroke? I definitely didn’t feel well, and the room suddenly felt stiflingly hot.

The chamber began to fill with a strange hum that reverberated deep into my bones and teeth. If I hadn’t had the table to hold on to, I was certain my legs would have given out. I let out a startled gasp as the wall furthest from the door began to glow an astonishing orange and red color.

Heat radiated around me, and while I wanted to run, my feet felt cemented to the floor. The humming sound grew so loud my eardrums ached painfully.

I stared in disbelief at the far wall as it began to glow brighter. When a dark figure formed in the center of the glowing wall, terror jolted through me. I felt as if I was losing my mind.

Or am I dreaming?

If this was a dream, I desperately wanted to wake up. Sweat beaded on my face as the heat in the room increased. I gritted my teeth and tried to move my feet. They felt too heavy, and my muscles trembled with the strain of trying to walk. The blazing air shuddered round me, and panic set in.

The logical side of my brain couldn’t believe any of this was real, and yet my skin felt like it was going to blister from the furnace-like temperature. When the faceless shape detached from the wall and stepped into the room, I felt like screaming. The figure’s features were still indiscernible, but as he headed toward me, I had no doubt he meant me harm. The humming sound increased, pounding through my head until it seemed to form words in my brain.

Give it to me and let this end. Give it to me and let this end. Give it to me and let this end.

The words curled malevolently around my soul, clawing and scraping.

Give what to it?

The figure held out its hand, and I stared wordlessly. Terrified into silence, I stood frozen, muscles locked. If I didn’t move, I’d die. I felt certain. But still, I was unable to run.

The stone clutched in my hand began to vibrate. While the room and my body felt hot, the gem was cold as ice against my palm. The room shook, and books fell off shelves, and I finally managed to move one foot. But as slowly as I was moving, the figure approaching would be on me way before I could reach the door.

Then what? What would that thing do to me?

When the door to the room suddenly flew open, I managed to cock my head just enough to see who stood there. Shock slammed through me as I recognized the slight blond guy standing there.

“Julian?” I whispered in bewilderment.

Without saying a word, he lunged forward, grabbed my arm, and dragged me from the room.