Don't Wake the Dead Page 2

  I stared at her blankly.

  “Shirtless.”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  She shook her head in disgust. “There’s no hope for you.” Then she moved through the wall, her faded outline dissipating against the cool blue background.

  My resident ghost was slightly obsessed with my neighbor, Preston. She’d been telling me since I’d moved in that I should ask him over for coffee or dinner. Or sex. I hadn’t done either. Mostly because I thought Teri was pushing me toward my neighbor in an effort to live vicariously through me.

  Also, I resisted because Preston just wasn’t my type. He was a nice man in his early thirties, good-looking, and employed. All the things most women would want in a potential mate.

  But he wasn’t for me.

  Like so many other people in the small town of Kenna, Texas, Preston Rogers thought I was…peculiar.

  And for good reason.

  When I was five, I died. No one could ever figure out what happened. My heart just—stopped. I was dead for nearly two minutes. The only reason I recovered was because the woman who lived across the street from us was a nurse. She saw me collapse on the front lawn and ran over to help. To this day, twenty-two years later, my mother refers to it as the incident.

  When I regained consciousness in the hospital, I saw a man standing by the door to my room. I asked my mother who he was, but she insisted that there was no one else there.

  It took me a while to realize what I was seeing. For the first few months, I told everyone I knew about the people I saw that no one else did.

  As I grew older I began to understand that they were ghosts. By then it was too late, everyone in my small town thought I was more than a little off since the incident.

  Then, in high school, I’d gone to the local cemetery with a group of kids. They dared me to go in alone. When I did, two of the fresh graves nearby opened up and out climbed a couple of corpses. Needless to say, the kids who I’d desperately wanted to befriend had left me stranded in that graveyard.

  Discovering what was happening to me became vitally important. After that night, I drove to Fort Worth and spent hours poring through books about the supernatural. I assumed that the bodies I’d raised in the cemetery were zombies, but I hadn’t intended for them to rise from the grave, so I doubted that I was a necromancer.

  Then there were the ghouls. Once I turned eighteen, men noticed me. However, it was only certain men and their interest was borderline creepy. Okay, forget creepy, it was borderline frightening.

  I didn’t understand what they were until I finally confronted a young ghoul with my can of pepper spray and a whole lot of attitude. He’d stammered out an explanation of what he was, which was unsettling in itself, and then I’d asked him not to continue when he’d begun talking about how he couldn’t resist me. Eating dead flesh was a massive turn off. Add in stalker tendencies, and I was ready to give him a blast of pepper spray just on principle.

  Over the years, I’d stopped acknowledging my abilities. When I was a child, I constantly talked about the people only I could see and it alienated me from other kids.

  I quit talking about it with my parents because my mother would freak out or loudly demand that I stop lying.

  The only person who seemed to understand and accept what was happening to me was my paternal grandmother. She listened to me when I told her the stories and described what I saw.

  Not long before she passed away, she said to me, “Sweetie, when you died and they revived you, I think a piece of the other side came back with your soul.”

  I still found those words comforting though my grandmother had been dead for seven years now.

  “Oh, hell yeah! Take it off, baby!”

  Teri’s voice cut through my maudlin mood as she whooped and hollered. Clearly, Preston had begun his workout in his backyard.

  Taking a sip of my hard cider, I picked up the TV remote and settled in to watch true crime shows.

  There was a knock on my door a couple hours later. Teri had gone quiet, which was typical for her. Sometimes I wondered if she took a nap in the afternoon like a whiny toddler. Or a bitchy she-ghost.

  I hauled myself off the couch, feeling more than a little tipsy. Peeking out the small windows that ran up each side of the doorjamb, I saw Jonelle standing on my front porch.

  Throwing open the door, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  She grinned at me and held up a bottle of sparkling wine. “Celebrating.”

  Though I was half drunk, her answer still made no sense to me.

  “Huh?”

  She brushed by me as she entered the house. “I’m helping you celebrate moving on from that job. You’ve mentioned changing careers several times in the past few months. Maybe this is an opportunity.”

  I ignored her statement, even though it was true. “Don’t you have clients?”

  Jonelle shrugged, brushing her blonde hair off her shoulders. “I only had a couple. I rescheduled them for tomorrow.”

  “Jonelle…”

  She shoved the bottle of wine at me. “Take the wine. Pour me a glass. No complaining. You’ve had a shitty morning and we’re going to take a day to goof off.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at her. “Yes, boss.”

  Nodding, she replied, “Damn skippy.”

  Rolling my eyes at her goofiness, I carried the wine into the kitchen. I laughed when I realized that the wine was screw top. Clearly we were going to be classy bitches and drink cheap wine.

  “I see the cock hopper showed up,” Teri said behind me.

  I twisted around and pointed at her. “That’s it. I’m leaving tomorrow for the entire day and I’m going to put Tori Amos on repeat. Do not call her that!”

  “Call her what?” Jonelle asked as she walked into the room, passing right through Teri’s opaque body.

  Teri wailed, “Goddammit, I hate it when she does that!”

  Though Jonelle swore she couldn’t see Teri, I think she could at least sense her because she did that a lot.

  “Teri was calling you a not-so-nice name. I was planning to punish her with Happy Phantom on repeat, but you just walked right through her so that may be punishment enough.”

  “So what did she call me?” Jonelle took the glass of wine I held out to her. When I hesitated, she sighed. “As if anything that demon poltergeist could call me would hurt my feelings.”

  “Cock hopper,” I stated.

  Jonelle choked on her wine as she guffawed. “Oh my God, that’s a good one. I’ve got to remember that.”

  I turned my gaze to Teri, making sure my displeasure was clear. “Go see if Preston is still working out and we’ll talk later.”

  Jonelle’s eyebrows rose at my statement. “Preston is working out right now? Is he shirtless?”

  I sighed. Though Teri seemed to despise Jonelle, they did share a common interest in my neighbor. Probably because he wouldn’t have sex with either of them. He seemed skittish around Jonelle, as if she was a bomb he expected to go off at any second.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jonelle commented, disappearing through the door. I heard her footsteps fade as she walked to the formal dining room across the hall. It had an unobstructed view into Preston’s back yard.

  Though their bickering required my participation and annoyed me to no end, it had accomplished the one thing I hadn’t thought possible.

  It took my mind off the fact that I was now unemployed.

  Chapter

  Two Months Later

  “So how’s the job hunt going?” my mother asked, her voice high and chipper as though she expected me to have great news for her.

  “It’s going,” I replied.

  I felt her annoyance from across the room but didn’t look up from my phone.

  “Zoe Rose Thorne, don’t you take that tone with me.”

  I took a sip of iced tea before lifting my gaze to hers. “Sorry, Mama.”

  She put a hand on her hip and studied me closely. Though she w
as fifty, my mother didn’t look it. Sarah Thorne always made an effort to look her best. Her brown hair was the same shade as my own, but now due to the grace of her hairdresser rather than God. Her skin was smooth, pale, and carried few lines.

  Though she abhorred exercise, my mother walked for half an hour every morning and ate healthfully. She also avoided alcohol, coffee, and sweets.

  If she could see all the junk food in my kitchen at the moment, she would lose her mind.

  “Have you heard anything from the jobs you applied for?” she persisted.

  I shook my head. “Nope. I’ve put in for several other positions this week, but things are moving slowly.” I didn’t mention to her that the job market was flooded with desperate people, many who were better qualified than I could ever hope to be.

  She shook her head, as though my continued unemployment was intentional in my effort to make her life more stressful. “You’ll just have to try harder,” she stated. “Start calling some of those companies. Call them every day.”

  I bit back a sigh. Persistence paid off, but if I called some of these businesses one more time I was liable to be charged with harassment.

  “I am working regularly with the temp agency,” I replied.

  “Three days a week,” she snapped, turning back to the pots and pans on the stove.

  Every week, I ate dinner with my parents on Thursday night. My mother insisted I come over early to “help” yet never let me do anything but wash dishes after we ate. When it came to cooking, my mother wanted things done in a particular fashion and it was best just to stay out of her way.

  “I’m doing okay, Mom,” I insisted. And I was. I might not have as much spending money as I used to, but my bills were getting paid and I’d barely touched my savings. Of course, I’d cancelled my cable subscription and started buying the manager’s specials at the grocery store, but I wasn’t broke.

  Yet.

  My mother shook her head and scoffed, keeping her back to me as she began to mash the hell out of the potatoes she’d just drained.

  I was saved from further lectures when my father appeared at the back door, carrying his lunchbox from work.

  His weathered face broke into a wide, sincere smile as he greeted me. “Hey, Zoe.”

  Though he spoke to me first, he went straight to my mother and kissed her hello. My relationship with my mother might be contentious, but it was sweet to see how devoted my father was to her. For as long as I could remember, the first thing my father did when he came home from work every night was kiss my mother.

  A shaft of longing pierced my heart. I rarely thought about dating or marriage, but those memories suddenly made me yearn for someone to come home to me at night. Someone who would walk through the door and straight to me to kiss me hello.

  I shook off the thoughts. At twenty-seven, I’d given up on the fairy tale ending years ago. Right now I’d be happy to find a man who didn’t think I was a freak or expect me to be so grateful for his attention that I’d let him treat me like shit.

  As she had for the last thirty years, my mother immediately brought dinner to the table as my father washed his hands.

  While we ate, my father and mother carried most of the conversation. After everyone was finished, I cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and washed the pots and pans.

  I was just finishing up when the phone rang and my mother carried the cordless handset out of the room to continue her conversation.

  “Let’s go out on the back porch and talk,” my dad suggested.

  I hung the dishtowel on the rack and nodded.

  “Want a beer?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He pulled two bottles from the fridge and popped the tops. I followed him out to the back porch and settled into one of the deck chairs.

  May typically brought warmer temperatures during the day, but the evenings were comfortably cool. When I was younger, we would sit outside after dinner almost every night. Sometimes we would talk, but most of the time we sat in silence.

  Before he sat down, Dad pulled his wallet out of his pocket and took out a slip of paper, holding it out to me.

  I took it from him and blinked at the check for five hundred dollars, made out to me. “What’s this?”

  “It’s for you. I know you said you’re doing okay, but this way I’ll be sure.”

  “Dad…”

  He shook his head and sat down next to me. “Don’t argue with me. If you really don’t need it, save it for when you do. I know your mom is giving you a hard time about not having a job yet, but it’s just because she’s worried about you.”

  I didn’t respond verbally, just shrugged. Dad always seemed to think the best of my mother’s intentions. It was difficult for me to do the same since I was the one on the receiving end of her directives.

  “Who do you think wrote out that check?” he asked.

  I stared at the check in surprise. It was clearly her handwriting now that I took the time to look at it.

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “Tell your mother that before you leave.”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  We sat there for a long while, sipping beer and talking occasionally about things we’d heard around town.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” I commented after I finished my beer. “I have a temp job in Fort Worth tomorrow morning and I can’t be late.”

  I gave my dad a hug and kiss on the cheek and went in search of my mother. When I thanked her for the check, she looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

  As I drove home, I thought about my dad’s words. Maybe my mother’s bossy demeanor was her way of showing she cared. If so, she must love me a lot. I chuckled to myself on that epiphany. My mother could spit out commands faster than an auctioneer at an estate auction.

  I hadn’t been lying when I told my parents I was doing okay. I’d cut back as much as I could, so my temp job was covering my bills, just without much room for extras.

  Though I had a mortgage on my house, it was very low. Because of the rumors that surrounded the Craftsman home, no one would buy it. After sitting vacant for years, the city was going to tear it down in an effort to entice someone to purchase the lot.

  I’d approached someone in City Hall about it and within a few weeks, I was a proud first time homeowner.

  Because I’d bought the house for so little, my mortgage was cheaper than rent on an apartment.

  I loved my little Craftsman style home. It needed renovating when I moved in, but with some elbow grease and a lot of help from my dad, it was almost as good as new.

  I even liked having Teri around. Though she could be a pain in the ass, she was a lot of fun. She was also the reason my mother refused to come to my house anymore. Teri had played one too many pranks on her in the last few years and she’d given me an ultimatum; either move somewhere else or she wouldn’t come over any longer.

  Clearly, I’d chosen to keep my house and my mother’s unexpected visits stopped.

  As a thank you gift for Teri, I purchased a calendar that featured naked French firefighters. It was hanging in the guest room so she could enjoy it privately.

  As I pulled up in front of my home I was even more determined to keep it. I’d worked long and hard for a place to call my own, even if it included a smartass ghost and a long list of home improvements.

  I had to find a steady job. And soon.

  Chapter

  Two days later, I was lazing on my front porch swing in the warm afternoon sun. I had a historical romance novel in one hand and a spoon in the other. An open jar of peanut butter was between my hip and the back of the swing and a huge glass of milk sat on a table beside the swing. In other words, I was in Heaven.

  Engrossed in the novel, I dipped the spoon in the jar and stuck it in my mouth. I refused to listen to the subconscious echo of my mother’s voice scolding me about all the germs and bacteria I was introducing into the jar. What woman hasn’t resorted to eating peanut butter directly fro
m the jar when she’s depressed?

  “Excuse me.”

  I nearly choked on the sticky wad in my mouth and looked up. For a split second I wasn’t sure if he was a living, breathing human being or an apparition. Then the sun came out from behind the clouds and reflected on his glasses and I knew he was real.

  As I studied him, he came up the steps. “Hi, my name is Mal Flemming. I’d like to talk to you about your house.”

  He held out a business card and I glanced at it, annoyed that my quiet time was being interrupted.

  Malachi Flemming,

  Paranormal Investigator and Host/Creator of The Wraith Files

  My eyes jumped back up to him, narrowing in suspicion. I reached out and grabbed the milk, washing the last bit of peanut butter from my mouth.

  Apparently, the guy could sense I was about to tell him to get lost because he squatted down so that we were almost eye level and ran a hand through his short black hair, leaving it spiky and messy.

  “Please just let me explain before you say no,” he pleaded.

  Since my tongue felt as though it were glued to the roof of my mouth I couldn’t answer, which he took as acquiescence.

  “I’m in the area for the next few weeks, filming my YouTube show, The Wraith Files, at the Baker Hotel and some other sites in the vicinity. Someone in Mineral Wells suggested this house, but they thought it was still vacant. I just want to ask you if you’ve seen or experienced anything out of the ordinary here.”

  As he spoke, he took off his black framed glasses and his eyes immediately made me forget what I intended to say. They were dark brown, flecked with gold, and something about them made me hesitate.

  I took another gulp of milk, finally washing down the last of the peanut butter. “Listen, Malachi-”

  He flinched. “Please, call me Mal. Malachi makes me think of Children of the Corn.”

  I caught myself chuckling. “Sorry,” I apologized.

  Mal shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. It is funny. I’m pretty sure my mom was still high on painkillers after my birth when she picked my name.”