The Shattered Seam (Seam Stalkers Book 1)

by Kathleen Groger

  Chauncey came to my side and circled around me while I tried to slow my breathing before I hyperventilated. I refused to be scared. There wasn’t any reason for my heart to be beating eighty miles per hour.

  I imagined drawing a waterfall, pushing my anxiety over the top with each stroke and washing it away. The image helped, but the creepies worked their way through my nerves as we went downstairs for round two with the madman’s dungeon.

  Eric opened the door to Novak’s torture chamber, then jumped back.

  “Marisol! Holy shit. You scared me. Why did you come down here by yourself?” Eric yelled.

  I ruffled Chauncey’s ears. He had sat down and refused to move into the room.

  “I don’t really know. Someone called me here, but when I came in, the chamber was empty,” Marisol said.

  The guys filed into the room. I clicked off my flashlight, ducked into the dungeon, leaving Chauncey by the door, and stood out of the way, making sure to avoid the rack of sticks.

  The only source of light in the room came from the flashlight Marisol twirled like a baton. It lit up her face, then part of the room, then Eric, the room, Randall, and back to Marisol. When the light spun, it showed Marisol had changed her clothes. She now wore a men’s-style white dress shirt over black pants. She had the shirt unbuttoned to the point her boobs would pop out if she’d had any cleavage. The provocative look was very different from the covered-up style she’d been sporting.

  “Turning on the EVP.” Daniel looked away from the medium and fiddled with the recorder.

  Marisol stopped twirling the flashlight and moved closer to Eric. “What do you think Stephen Novak liked to do to his women?”

  Eric cleared his throat and switched to his TV voice. “Can you see anyone? Is there someone here?”

  Marisol lifted her long blonde hair up, then dropped it over her shoulders.

  I tried not to gag. I so didn’t want to see this.

  “Do you think he romanced them? Swam naked in the pool with them? Then covered their skin with rose oil to purify them?” Marisol ran the end of the flashlight down Eric’s chest.

  I focused on Randall. He was catching her bizarre flirting on film.

  Eric stepped back. “I have no idea. You tell me. You seem to have some knowledge.” Eric motioned to Daniel. “Who’s here with us? Who’s talking to Marisol?”

  “Why do you think he killed them?” Marisol slid the light along the buttons of her shirt.

  If she moved it any lower, I was so gone. There was no way this footage was going to make it on the show.

  Unless … unless they’d concocted a plan.

  That had to be it. Marisol was acting this way to boost the ratings. I eased my grip on the flashlight and dropped my shoulders. It was all an act. I was stupid for thinking Marisol’d crossed into looneyville.

  “Because he was mentally unbalanced?” Randall moved closer to capture the flashlight sliding inside the folds of Marisol’s shirt.

  “Does anyone else smell that?” Daniel asked.

  I inhaled the scent of worn leather and spices. It smelled like the aftershave my grandfather had worn and eerily similar to what I had been catching whiffs of here and there.

  “It’s definitely a man’s cologne.” Eric made a production of sniffing the air. “Stephen Novak? Are you here in the dungeon with us?”

  Everyone went quiet. Marisol stopped doing lewd movements with the flashlight and sat in the throne chair.

  “Why did you kill all those women?” Eric shouted.

  Pain radiated through my burnt palm. I rubbed it on my jeans, but it kept hurting like something sharp was poking me. I leaned against the stone wall. A coldness clamped around my wrist and yanked me forward. I tripped, and when I got back up, a misty white fog surrounded me.

  I reached out. It looked and felt like what I pictured clouds to feel like. Dampness clung to the air and pushed against me, making it hard to breathe. Where was I? What had happened? I tried to step forward, but my feet were trapped in the heavy, cloud-like vapor.

  “Help me. Please, help me.” The words spun around me. I couldn’t see who was saying them.

  I closed my eyes. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. My legs wobbled, but I stayed standing.

  Eric said something about EMF readings. I opened my eyes. I was in the dungeon. Daniel and Randall were filming Eric. I glanced around. When my gaze landed on the wooden X, I froze. A woman was chained to it spread-eagled, wrists bound to the tops, ankles to the bottoms. Her head was turned away from me and her brown hair covered her face. She wore a thin silk camisole-type nightgown that was stained with dark spots.

  The woman looked my way. Her hair moved and revealed her face. Her skin was torn and flapped against her cheek, exposing bone.

  I forced myself not to cry out.

  “Help me. Please.” Her voice sounded old-style-recording hollow.

  I blinked hard.

  She tried to move her wrists, and the chains clanked against the wood.

  I blinked again. Blew out a deep breath and stopped leaning against the cool stone wall.

  She disappeared.

  “Someone is telling me to open the drawer under this seat.” Marisol reached under the throne chair, opened a drawer that was part of the design, and pulled out something square and jagged.

  I saw a dead person. A spirit. A ghost.

  “Marisol, what’s that?” Randall’s voice screeched into a falsetto.

  “What?”

  “That. The wood you’re holding.” Randall’s hands shook, bouncing the camera.

  Marisol shined her flashlight on the object. “Well, look at that. It’s part of a broken blood board.”

  I saw a dead lady. Coldness shot through me, and I couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Is that the same piece?” Brett moved out of a shadowed corner.

  “No. It can’t be.”

  “Same piece as what?” Marisol waved the board at Randall.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “As the board we found in Stephen Novak’s bedroom.” Eric pointed for Randall to get closer to film the object. “What did the spirit say to you? Was it a man or a woman’s voice?”

  She was a ghost. A spirit. Dead.

  “It spoke in a whisper. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. It told me to open the drawer under the seat. That’s it. I didn’t see any entity. Just heard the voice.” Marisol held the board with one hand and air-typed again with the other.

  “It looks like the board from upstairs.” Eric bent over to get a better look.

  I couldn’t stop shaking, and the pain kept shooting across my palm. I had to get out of the dungeon.

  “I’ll check it out.” Brett ran out and was back in about ten minutes. Ten minutes of seeing the woman’s ripped-open face flash through my mind. Ten minutes too long. “It’s gone.”

  Eric pumped his fist. “It was an apport.”

  “A what?” Brett looked as confused as I felt.

  “Apports. Spirits moving objects from place to place. Sometimes they’re gifts from the other side to mediums.” Eric’s voice held a note of excitement I didn’t share.

  “You’re saying a ghost moved it for Marisol?”

  My stomach knotted, filling me with a queasy feeling.

  “I need some air.” Marisol stormed from the dungeon before anyone could stop her.

  “Wow. She’s acting bizarre. I want to review the footage and see if anything can explain her behavior,” Eric said. “Sam, do you want to watch?”

  “No.” I needed to stop freaking out. Needed to regain control of myself.

  My head pounded, my palm stung, my stomach churned. I’d had enough craziness I couldn’t explain.

  Eric closed the distance between us, wrapped his arms around me, and squeezed. “Let me help you move your stuff.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll meet you in command,” Daniel said, and the rest of the team left, leaving Eric and me alone.

&nbs
p; It took only a few minutes to move my suitcase, backpack, pillow, and sleeping bag to the much smaller room next to Eric’s.

  “Try and get some sleep.” Eric grabbed the doorframe. “I’ll be up all night if you need me.”

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

  Eric left. Chauncey sprawled over half the bed, and I sat on the corner.

  Medium. Medium. Medium.

  I got up and walked around the room. I had way too much energy to sleep. I needed to do something. I opened the closet and spotted a box on the top shelf. Standing on tiptoe, I pulled it down and carried it to the bed.

  It was a music box, decorated with faded pink-and-gold ornate flowers. It reminded me of the one Nana had given me for my fifth birthday. It was definitely not Novak’s. Maybe it had belonged to one of his victims. Chauncey sat up and sniffed the box. I blew the years of dust from the top and flipped the lid. A chipped ceramic ballerina popped up in front of the age-stained mirror nestled in yellow satin. I wound the knob on the back of the box. No music, no ballerina twirls. I put the broken box on the dresser. I wanted to sketch the antique to focus on something besides the dead woman.

  Paper. I needed paper. I crept next door to Eric’s room. Clothes spilled out of the duffle bag he’d tossed on the bed, but there was no paper. He must have left his backpack with all his work stuff in the command center. I turned to leave and spotted Novak’s journal on the dresser.

  I could forget I saw it, or I could borrow it and see if he mentioned the woman and what happened to her face. I swiped the book and jogged back to my room. I snuggled in next to Chauncey and thumbed to one of the later entries.

  February 13, 1910

  Today was difficult. Miss Elizabeth Wilson paid me an unexpected visit on the island. Luckily I was alone when she arrived by ferry. However, Miss Wilson did not come alone. She brought her young daughter with her.

  I have not seen Elizabeth in many a year after we spent the one night together. I still remember the jasmine scent of her perfume and the way her golden curls fanned out down her back. The way we joined together three times that evening. I never expected to see her again, let alone have her surprise me at my castle.

  I politely invited them into my home. When I asked her why she was visiting me, she sent the girl to play in another room. Then Elizabeth told me the young girl was my daughter. I will say that news felt like a knife to the windpipe. A man in my situation does not go around fathering bastards. I told her she was mistaken. With tears streaming from her overly made-up eyes, she claimed she needed money and said I could keep the girl for the right price.

  I informed Miss Wilson the girl was not mine, I would give her nothing, and they had best leave immediately. When we went to collect the child, she was missing. It took us hours to find her in the castle’s lower levels. Elizabeth was understandably distraught, and wailed and cried it was my fault the girl died. I collected the child’s body, and brought her and her hysterical mother to the main floor of the castle.

  Killing Elizabeth brought me no joy. Not like the others. Blonde Elizabeth was never supposed to be one of my special ladies. I buried both of them in the maze clearing with the statues.

  I must cleanse and purify myself.

  16

  I closed the journal and swallowed. Daniel had said the police killed Novak when they came to the island looking for a woman who’d disappeared. I hoped it was Elizabeth and her poor daughter. At least she would have been avenged. I couldn’t read any more of his twisted thoughts and set the book on the nightstand. I flipped off the light and curled next to Chauncey, fighting to keep my mind blank, and eventually fell asleep.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep when I opened my eyes. It was still dark. I gave Chauncey a pat, then rolled over. Music filled the room. I bolted upright and flicked on the light. The music box on the dresser was open and working. The ballerina spun around and around while the song played. The melody was familiar. Where had I heard it before? I shoved aside my sleeping bag and darted to the dresser. Darn thing must’ve been stuck before. I shut the lid, ending the music, and stuffed the box back in the closet.

  I hummed the melody, then stopped. It was the same song Amelia had sung on the docks. Amelia. Where was her paper? I grabbed my jeans and pulled it from the pocket.

  Once he sees you, you’ll need this, Miss Sam.

  The lines and shapes still made no sense. I turned the page in different directions but couldn’t figure out what the drawing was supposed to be. And I still had no idea who he was or why Amelia thought I would need the paper. I folded the blue page and stuck it in the pocket of the jeans I planned to wear that day.

  “Might as well get dressed.” Chauncey looked up at me. “There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep now.”

  It took me about thirty minutes to get ready. I left my hair down to do its natural wonky wave.

  “Okay, boy. Let’s go.”

  Chauncey jumped off the bed. I went to grab the journal, but it wasn’t there.

  I searched the covers, under the bed, the entire room.

  The book was gone.

  I licked my lips and took a deep breath. There was a reasonable explanation. Eric must have taken it. Him closing the door was what woke me up and jostled the music box enough to play. Yes, that explained everything.

  I left my room and stopped at the entrance to Novak’s. Chauncey stood next to the wall. It was dark, and I had to use the flashlight to see inside. It was still a wreck. The burn on my hand throbbed, and I backed away. There was no way I was going back in there. Eric was going to have to find my sketchbook for me.

  Downstairs, I let Chauncey out, had breakfast, then went to the command center in search of paper. Chauncey paced back and forth in front of the table covered in monitors. I checked every case, box, and bag. Not one sheet of paper. The guys had to be hoarding it all somewhere. I cracked my restless fingers and checked out the screens. Nothing being filmed seemed out of place, not counting the master bedroom. I ran my hands across my face, then through my hair.

  Marisol breezed into the room.

  “You’re up early.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Marisol? What’s wrong?”

  Chauncey’s ears went back, and he stared at the medium.

  She left the command center. Chauncey and I followed her up the stairs, all the way to the third floor. She walked with purpose, like she was trailing someone—or something—I couldn’t see. She stopped in front of a closed door.

  The air turned cold, so cold, I could see my breath.

  I took out my phone, hit the button to record what she did, but there was no battery.

  Marisol opened the door and went inside. I slid the phone back in my pocket. Chauncey gave a low whine, sat, and refused to move.

  I glanced over my shoulder, then went in after her. The room was small and decorated with antiques. Marisol opened a steamer-type trunk that sat under a circular window. I wished I had my sketchbook. The room screamed at me to draw its contents. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “Following the dead,” Marisol answered in a sing-song voice. “She told me to come here and look in the trunk. Don’t you see her?”

  The woman was beyond weird. “No. Who is she?”

  “Emily.”

  That explained everything. “Who’s Emily?”

  Marisol pulled a scrapbook-sized brown leather book from the trunk and turned to me. At first, I thought it was my sketchbook, but it was much older and worn.

  “The entity standing beside you.”

  My stomach roller-coastered. I stumbled back a few steps. There wasn’t anyone next to me. Maybe I really was crazy and not gifted. “What? Where?”

  “On your right. She wanted you to see this.” Marisol held out the book.

  “Me? Why me?”

  Marisol shrugged and pushed the book at me. I didn’t take it. I didn’t want to know what was in it, considering the last book a spirit supposedly wanted me to find had
been Novak’s diary, but I knew I had to look.

  “What’s in it?”

  Marisol flipped through the book and frowned. “Pictures.” More flipping and frowning. “Oh, these are death shots.”

  I sure as hell didn’t want to see it now. “No.”

  “She’s insisting you see it.”

  “Why?”

  “She says he took the pictures. After.”

  She couldn’t mean… “After? After he killed them?” I covered my mouth and backed up. “No.”

  “The women all look similar.” Marisol looked at me sharply. “They all look like you.”

  “You’re joking.” She had to be messing with me.

  “No.” Marisol shook her blonde hair. “It’s weird, Sam. They all bear a striking resemblance to you.”

  This was too much. This couldn’t be happening. I fit the profile type for a sadistic serial killer.

  Something snapped in my brain.

  Novak had liked generic shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes. A lot of the female population had brown with brown. This wasn’t a big deal.

  I looked like Novak’s victims.

  He was dead. I was alive.

  And if I could somehow talk to the dead, there was no way I would be chatting with him. I had to stop this insanity.

  “Give it here.” I held out my hand and cringed at how much it shook.

  Marisol passed me the scrapbook of death. It was heavy and real.

  I couldn’t open it. I didn’t want to see the faces of the dead. “Why does the spirit want me to see this?”

  “What?” Marisol’s eyes were glazed.

  “Why did the ghost you talked to want me to see the book?”

  She didn’t answer.

  The medium couldn’t have just stumbled across this room, this trunk, this book. Maybe Daniel had come here last week and put certain objects in strategic locations, then told Marisol where to find them. Yeah, that was it. The whole week was just a scripted show made to look like reality TV. I turned, looking for Randall and his ever-present camera, but no one else was in the room. I searched the corners for a camera. Nothing. The guys had done a good job hiding them.