City of Ghosts

by J. H. Moncrieff

  The dark fiction community has been incredibly welcoming and supportive, in particular Don D’Auria, Mercedes M. Yardley, Hunter Shea, Chuck Wendig, Ronald Malfi, Theresa Braun, Catherine Cavendish, JG Faherty, Brian Kirk, Somer Canon, Jonathan Moore, Tausha Johnson, Brian Moreland, and Russell R. James. Special thanks go out to JG Faherty, Russell R. James, Stuart West, and Henry Harner for being my beta readers.

  I’m blessed to be surrounded by such talented people.

  Huge bear hugs to Alex Cavanaugh and his fellow writers at The Insecure Writer’s Support Group. They’re always there for me, whether I need a cheering section or a crying towel. I can’t recommend them or thank them enough.

  About the Author

  J.H. Moncrieff grew up in the far north, amid Jack London’s world of dog sleds and dark winters.

  She won Harlequin’s worldwide search for “the next Gillian Flynn” in 2016.

  Her novella, The Bear Who Wouldn’t Leave, was featured in Samhain’s Childhood Fears collection and stayed on its horror bestsellers list for over a year.

  Her journalism career well prepared her for the perilous life of a suspense author, as she tracked down snipers and canoed through crocodile-infested waters. She has published hundreds of articles in national and international magazines and newspapers.

  When not writing, she loves exploring the world’s most haunted places, advocating for animal rights, and summoning her inner ninja in muay thai class.

  Coming soon from J.H. Moncrieff and DeathZone Books

  —more tales of spine-tingling supernatural suspense!

  The Girl Who Talks to Ghosts

  © 2017 J.H. Moncrieff

  Enjoy this sneak peek of The Girl Who Talks to Ghosts, book two in J.H. Moncrieff’s new GhostWriters series:

  ~ Chapter One ~

  The woman was hysterical, sobbing so much I couldn’t understand her. As I pressed my cell harder against my ear, the wind sprouted claws and slashed at my meager sweater until I shivered. Phone calls used to be rare, but I’d been getting more and more since Jackson and I had gone public with what had happened to us in China. Now everyone in Vermont seemed to know my name, and they all needed help.

  “Hello? Can I help you?”

  The crying increased in volume, blistering my ears. I would have hung up if not for the wind. Its power intensified, churning the dead leaves and other debris from the sidewalk around my feet, pushing against my legs. There was something strange about its sudden force, which drove me against the brick facing of Hildy’s Fine China & Sundries. (Hildy’d had an ampersand before it was trendy.)

  “Hello?” The single word contained the edge of my fear. Both my voice and hands were shaking. Something did not want me to talk to this woman. Something did not want me to help her. I’d taken hundreds of similar calls over the past few years, but had never felt anything like this. “Please say something. I’m afraid we’re going to lose our connection.”

  Clutching at my sweater to keep it from being blown off my shoulders, I ducked my head to protect my face as my hair whipped around in a furious tangle. I huddled against Hildy’s shop, wondering if I should go in, but the older woman wouldn’t be impressed to see me on my phone. Her establishment was a temple, a library. The loyal customers who kept her in business spoke in whispers and walked on tiptoes. By bursting in like this and continuing my shouted one-sided conversation, I’d have become the proverbial bull. Not good.

  “Miss Carlsson? Kate Carlsson?” The woman had regained her composure enough to gasp my name. The grip around my heart tightened, even though I’d known all along the call was meant for me.

  “Yes, speaking. What’s wrong?” There was no point wasting time with idle chitchat. Obviously something was wrong—very wrong. Another gust of wind knocked my skull against the side of the building and pain jolted through my brain.

  The caller was silent for so long I ordinarily would have assumed she’d hung up, lost her nerve. It happened. It wasn’t easy for people to admit they needed my help. It was a leap of faith, a willingness to open their minds to the possibility that something they’d spent their entire lives denying could be real after all.

  But the wind told me otherwise. I waited for her to speak again, raising one arm between my face and the building to protect my head. The chill had seeped into my bones, and what I wanted more than anything was to run home and immerse myself in a steaming hot bath while I drank a cup of the pumpkin spice tea I’d just purchased. I didn’t want to talk to this woman. I didn’t want to hear about what terrible things were happening at her home, for surely terrible things were happening. But I’d learned long ago that my gift was bigger than me, and if this woman needed it, I wasn’t going to turn away from her.

  Finally she spoke. I could barely hear her over the gale, which shrieked like a tortured soul. “My mother is attacking my child.” Her voice trembled with fresh tears. “I can’t believe it, haven’t wanted to believe it, but it’s true. I’ve seen it.”

  “Is your mother dead, Mrs…”

  “Walkins. My name is Walkins. Yes, she died last year. But she was such a good woman. She loved Lily. I can’t believe she would do these things. Why would she do these things?”

  I could feel curious eyes burning into me, watching me struggle to stay on my feet. Pushing my hair away from my face, I risked a glimpse and was immediately sorry I had. The leaves around my feet had arranged themselves in the form of a girl, a girl not much shorter than me. As I stared, my pulse throbbing behind my temples, the terrifying apparition raised a rustling arm toward me before collapsing onto the sidewalk.

  “Whatever is hurting Lily isn’t your mother, Mrs. Walkins. What’s your address? I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Walkins resembled my other clients in every way but one. She had the gaunt, drawn face of someone whose last decent meal had been consumed days before. Dark circles rimmed eyes that were bloodshot and caked with dried tears. Her entire body shook as if she were unbearably cold.

  These things were to be expected.

  The angry scratches running up and down her arms were not.

  “Did your mother do that to you?” I turned one of her arms toward the light to get a better look. Her skin felt as fragile as dead leaves under my fingers. One of the scratches was new, the unshed blood glittering in the afternoon sun that poured in her living room window.

  “No, it’s Lily.” Her sallow cheeks colored. “I can’t understand it, Miss Carlsson. She’s always been such a good child. She’s never done anything like this before, but in the past few weeks, she’s become quite…violent.”

  “Call me Kate, please. Is Lily home?” I knew she was. As soon as I’d stepped into Mrs. Walkins’ tidy bungalow, I’d felt the dark malevolence radiating from the end of the hallway.

  “And I’m Vittoria. Yes, she is. She seemed fine this morning, but when I called you, she went…well, she went crazy. She’s hurt me before, but not like this.” The woman bent her head, her bony shoulders shaking as she cried. I was no psychic, but it was easy enough to read her tortured thoughts, her fears that this was her fault—that despite her best efforts, she’d been a horrible mother and somehow managed to raise a monster.

  A monster that had sprouted fangs overnight.

  I put my arms around her, shocked at the number of spirits who were desperate to speak to this woman. It was a regular mob, screaming and crying in outrage. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone wanted to speak their piece. At the edge of the gathering, cloaked in shadow, was a sad-faced woman with gray hair. I was willing to bet she was the grandmother in question.

  It took a considerable amount of strength to force them aside. Once this situation was resolved, Vittoria Walkins was going to get a lesson in letting people go. With that many souls hanging around, I was surprised she hadn’t had trouble long before now.

  The spirits clinging to Vittoria weren’t the problem, though. It was the one shadowing her daughter.

  I walked Vit
toria to her kitchen, its cleanliness showing me she was like my own mother. Both women cleaned in times of stress, subconsciously believing that if their homes were in perfect order, their lives would be too.

  If only it were that easy.

  “Can you make us both a cup of tea? And set out some cookies, if you have any. Cookies would be nice.” The cookies were more for her, but I had a feeling my strength was going to be depleted by the end of my meeting with Lily. Mostly I needed to give this woman something to do that would keep her busy and out of my way. Northern hospitality wouldn’t allow her to refuse me, and I was counting on that. “I’m going to talk to Lily for a bit.”

  Although it wouldn’t be Lily I spoke to, and we both knew it.

  Vittoria hesitated, glancing toward the hall. It was clear from her body language that her daughter’s room had become a dreaded place. Hell had invaded her home, and she had no idea what to do with it. “I should introduce you. I never told Lily you were coming over. She’s shy—she always did have a problem with strangers.”

  It almost made me laugh. Lily was definitely having a problem with strangers now. But sadly, nothing was funny about this situation.

  “It’s okay. She already knows I’m here. It would really be best if you weren’t there when I met her. Can you make the tea for us? Please? I shouldn’t be longer than ten minutes.” I hope. “I just need to determine what the problem is.”

  Vittoria’s shoulders sagged with relief, but her expression was still doubtful. “If you’re sure…”

  “I’m sure. I need you to stay here, no matter what. Even if you hear someone cry out. I promise Lily will be fine. I’m not going to hurt her. If you hear her crying for you, it’s a trick.”

  At my words, tears streamed down her face. “I hear her crying all the time, like she’s in pain. It’s terrible.”

  Seeing the poor woman’s torment reminded me why I could never turn my back on The Gift—a “gift” which was often an awful, dark thing I would never have asked for and didn’t want. But without it, Vittoria Walkins would be lost and so would her daughter.

  “I know. It’ll be over soon.” I tried my best to sound more confident than I felt. Faking confidence came with the territory. “What about Lily’s father? Is he in the picture?” The last thing I needed was some man charging into the room at a sensitive moment.

  “He’s at work. He won’t be home until five.”

  I could see us both doing mental calculations. It was a few minutes past two. I hoped it would be enough time.

  “He didn’t want me to call you. He doesn’t believe in any of this stuff. He blames everything on the ‘terrible teens.’ Lily’s barely twelve, but he says everything happens earlier these days.” Her words caught on a sob. “I didn’t want to believe it either, but what else was I supposed to do? These horrible things keep happening, and Lily goes on and on about my mother. This isn’t puberty, I don’t care what he says.”

  But she did care, clearly. Otherwise he’d know I was here. All the more reason to make sure I was finished before five. This work was exhausting enough. I wouldn’t have the energy to convince a bullheaded man that Lily’s problems had nothing to do with her impending adolescence.

  “You’re right. It’s not normal, but it’s not that unusual, either. You’re not alone, Vittoria. Plenty of people in Nightridge have called me.”

  I’d often considered forming a support group for my clients, so they could safely discuss their experiences, assured that not a single person in the room would accuse them of being insane or in it for the publicity. It was a good idea; I just hadn’t found the time yet. My clients tended to be protective of their privacy, for obvious reasons. It would take some convincing.

  Tomorrow. There was always tomorrow.

  The darkness seeping from Lily’s room like an oil spill both beckoned and repulsed me. I’d wasted too much time already.

  “I’ll be back in a bit. It would be lovely to have a cup of tea afterward. And cookies—don’t forget the cookies.”

  I left before Vittoria could say anything else.

  The walls leading to Lily’s room were pristine, painted white (although I’m sure it wasn’t called white but some bullshit name like Moonbeam or Manifest Destiny) until I got close to her door. Here the drywall was cracked, the ugly crevices radiating out from the frame. There were dents and pockmarks in the heavy wooden door, marred by splinters.

  Before I could raise my hand to knock, the door staggered open, hanging off its hinges like a dangling tongue.

  A young woman was in the room, sitting cross-legged on a bed. Thick, dark hair hung to her waist. I could see she had been pretty once, before whatever had a grip on her had sunk its teeth in. When she saw me, her lips curled into a sneer. There was a flicker of something red in her dark eyes, there and gone so quickly many would have missed it, but I didn’t. Thankfully her parents hadn’t seen it, or they’d be in the cardiac wing of Nightridge Memorial.

  “What the fuck do you want? Get the fuck out of here.”

  I’m guessing Vittoria’s elderly mother had never used such language.

  “Nice to meet you too. I’d like to talk to Lily Walkins, please.” Crap—was her last name Walkins? I’d forgotten to ask. This case must really have been throwing me to make such a rookie mistake. At thirty-five, I was far from a rookie.

  “I am Lily,” the thing on the bed growled.

  “Nice try, asshole. I know you’re not Lily.” I could see it wasn’t the maligned grandmother, either. Whatever was tormenting Lily was much bigger and more powerful than the sad-faced woman I’d glimpsed earlier.

  The girl’s cheeks reddened until they were nearly purple, and I feared for her health. At least she was young, so she had a better shot of surviving this relatively unscathed. But I couldn’t worry about her right now. I had to deal with the asshole first.

  It released a string of invective at me, spittle flying everywhere, making me glad I’d kept my distance. I only caught a word now and then, but it was enough.

  “Well done, Lily. When did you learn to speak fluent Italian? Your parents will be so pleased.”

  Another snarl from the bed. More nasty Italian hurled my way. Apparently this spirit wasn’t aware of the whole sticks-and-stones thing. Now that I was here, facing the jerk, my fear and dread were gone. A calmness settled over me. The spirit wasn’t that strong—if it were, it would have tried to attack me physically, and it hadn’t even used Lily to do that yet. Which was a relief, because manhandling children hadn’t gotten easier over the years.

  Best of all, Lily was still there. I could feel her own spirit reaching out, melding her energy with mine. Together we would break this asshole’s hold and send it back to whatever rock it had crawled out from.

  “We can’t have a proper conversation if I don’t know your name. I’m Kate Carlsson—who are you? And don’t give me that ‘I’m Lily’ crap, because I can see your dick from here. Not that it’s anything to see.”

  Thankfully, I couldn’t, but I wanted to let him know the jig was up. This spirit was definitely male, and dude did not look like a lady, even with his Lily mask on.

  I’d guessed pride was his sin of choice, and I was right. He curled Lily’s nose in disdain and spoke to me in perfect, Italian-accented English. “Why should I demean myself by speaking to you? You have no idea whom you are addressing, peasant.”

  Peasant? That asshole. Showed you what he knew. This sweater was 100 percent cashmere. “So enlighten me. Because as of right now, I don’t see a special snowflake. I see an average, run-of-the-mill, obnoxious, bullying ghost. You jerks are a dime a dozen, as my grandma liked to say. If you’re going to impress me, you’ll have to try harder.”

  Lily’s spine creaked as her body stiffened. Her chin tilted upward, and her face took on a smug expression I was willing to bet she’d never worn in her life. “I am not a ghost, you impertinent, misguided peasant. I am so much more than that.”

  Uh-oh. The ones with del
usions of grandeur are always the hardest to crack. So damned stubborn. For now it was easier to play along. “Sorry, I must have mistaken you for some other dead guy. Who are you?”

  “I am Dr. Abbandonato. If you have not heard of me, you soon will. The research I am doing is revolutionary. It will change the world. Everyone will know my name.”

  Jesus, what a megalomaniac. “Sure, buddy. I’m sure they will. So you’re Italian?”

  The sneer took on even more ugliness. “I am Venetian.”

  My mind raced. It had been a long time since I’d studied Italian history; Mediterranean ghosts weren’t common in Vermont. How far back were we going if Venice was considered a place apart from Italy? I suspected quite a bit.

  As I spoke to the spirit, he came more and more into view, almost completely obscuring Lily’s features, but it didn’t help me nail the time period. He wore a white lab coat, which indicated he was most likely telling the truth, at least about being a physician. Doctors’ uniforms hadn’t changed much over the centuries.

  I shuddered at the idea of this man caring for patients. Even though death, especially violent death, can warp a soul beyond recognition, I could tell he had been a bad dude in life. Shadows clung to him like mold. He reeked of rot, and as he came more into focus, the tang of blood filled my nose until my stomach churned.

  Now that he was closer, I could see he held something on his lap. Something strange and birdlike. It was still too hazy to make out, but it gave me the creeps. “So you’re from Venice. Why don’t you go back there? I’m sure people are missing you, especially if you’re as important as you say.”