Stumptown Spirits
Page 1
Riptide Publishing
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
Stumptown Spirits
Copyright © 2016 by E.J. Russell
Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
Editor: Carole-ann Galloway
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.
ISBN: 978-1-62649-408-4
First edition
May, 2016
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-409-1
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What price would you pay to rescue a friend from hell?
For Logan Conner, the answer is almost anything. Guilt-ridden over trapping his college roommate in a ghost war rooted in Portland’s pioneer past, Logan has spent years searching for a solution. Then his new boyfriend, folklorist Riley Morrel, inadvertently gives him the key. Determined to pay his debt—and keep Riley safe—Logan abandons Riley and returns to Portland, prepared to give up his freedom and his future to make things right.
Crushed by Logan’s betrayal, Riley drops out of school and takes a job on a lackluster paranormal investigation show. When the crew arrives in Portland to film an episode about a local legend of feuding ghosts, he stumbles across Logan working at a local bar, and learns the truth about Logan’s plan.
Their destinies once more intertwined, the two men attempt to reforge their relationship while dodging a narcissistic TV personality, a craven ex-ghost, and a curmudgeonly bar owner with a hidden agenda. But Logan’s date with destiny is looming, and his life might not be the only one at stake.
For Jim, Hana, Ross, and Nick.
Because.
“. . . to go or participate on a quest or adventure for something which has defined a mystery or legend . . . not verified or explained by science. These legends are cryptids . . . the paranormal . . . extraterrestrials . . . and lost treasures and places of wonder.”
Robert Robinson, legendtrippersofamerica.blogspot.com
“. . . an organized journey to an isolated area to test the bravery of the group when faced with supernatural phenomena. The trip experience involves the telling of appropriate legends . . . Sites include cemeteries, tunnels, deserted and “haunted” houses, and remote lanes and bridges.”
Gail De Vos, Tales, Rumors, and Gossip
About Stumptown Spirits
Legend Tripping
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Dear Reader
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
Also by E.J. Russell
About the Author
More like this
The lobby of Portland’s Vaughn Street Hotel seethed like a skirmish between rival armies: the hotel staff versus the invading Hollywood barbarians. Judging by the glassy stares of Team Hotel, the TV production crew was winning this round.
“Coming through.”
“Sorry.” Riley Morrel dodged one of the other production assistants barreling through the doors with a giant box of cables in her arms, and glanced down at his own empty hands. Everyone knows what to do except me.
Sure, Riley wore the show uniform—a black North Face jacket with the Haunted to the Max logo blazoned across the back in jagged neon-green letters—but he secretly identified more with the beleaguered hotel employees. Ever since his best friend, Julie, the show’s unit production manager, had browbeaten him onto the crew, he’d been in a perpetual state of WTF.
Today, though, was a triple-header of F. The equivalent of Cerberus simultaneously slobbering down his neck, growling in his ear, and nipping at his ass. Because after almost five months on staff, today marked his first time on location with the show, the first time the showrunner had agreed to film one of his story treatments, and his first time back in Oregon since Julie had rescued him from his spectacular crash and burn.
At the moment, Julie was standing at the concierge’s desk, scowling at her cell phone, the thwack of her ever-present clipboard against her thigh audible from across the lobby.
She met Riley’s gaze through the shifting chaos of HttM staff jockeying overladen luggage carts, hand trucks stacked with production equipment, and armfuls of carryout Thai food, and her eyes narrowed.
Uh-oh. Cue the emergency broadcast alarms. Riley knew that look, although in the ten-plus years of their friendship, it had never been directed at him before. He ran a quick conscience check, but couldn’t come up with any reason he’d be on her shit-radar. Nevertheless, he needed a diversion, or failing that, a barricade. Empty hands won’t cut it.
He intercepted one of the grips passing with a luggage cart stacked with black nylon company duffels. “Hey, Wes. I’ve got this. Why don’t you take a break?”
Wes grinned and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his bandana. “Appreciate it, man. Pad Thai and microbrew are calling my name.”
Riley angled the cart until it blocked him from his dearest friend in the world, now charging toward him like a Valkyrie on meth.
Julie executed a neat end run around his luggage fortress and backed him into a corner between a faux-marble column and an aquarium with a single morose betta.
“Logan.”
Riley blinked, gaping as if he belonged in the water alongside the fish. “What?” Julie never mentioned his ex-boyfriend’s name without adding at least a pair of profane epithets.
“Logan, that dickhead douche-rocket. He’s from Portland.”
“So are a lot of people. Over half a million within the city limits. Over two million if you count the surrounding counties that are p
art of the designated metro area and if you include—”
“Don’t try to blind me with statistics. Explain this.”
She thrust her cell phone at his face, so close that Riley had to rear back and adjust his glasses in order to focus on the screen. His heart dive-bombed the floor. Logan, behind a bar, silhouetted against shelves of liquor. In the harsh downlight, his forearms, decorated with Celtic ink, looked exactly as sculpted as Riley remembered, and his tight white T-shirt seemed to glow.
Riley swallowed against the sneaker wave of want and loss. “He’s a bartender. So?”
“I know that, doofus. But this particular bar is here.” She sliced the air with her cell phone as if it were a battle ax. “In Portland. This picture was taken last night.”
His heart leaped and dropped again. God, in his determination to put Logan out of his mind, he’d missed the obvious. Logan was a native Portlander. Most of the people he knew were here, so it was natural he’d return. But when they’d met, Logan had been heading south, away from Portland, and Riley had assumed he’d continued in the same direction after his bolt.
“How did you find him?”
“Do not doubt my superpowers. Remember I herd Max Stone for a living.” She whirled and pointed at two of the hotel’s bellmen who were unwisely approaching the abandoned luggage cart. “Don’t touch that,” she barked, and they bounded away like frightened deer.
Okay. Wrong question. “Jules, why did you bother to look?” Although Riley had been tempted, he’d never given in.
Her forehead bunched, brows drawing together. “Somebody has to watch out for you.”
“I can take care of myself.” He didn’t need Julie monitoring his emotional temperature 24-7. Edging past her, he grabbed the cart and pushed it behind a pair of couches, out of the main flow of traffic.
She dogged his heels. “Right. You were doing so well.”
He scowled at his high-tops and kicked the cart’s wheel. “You invented this job for me, didn’t you? Out of pity.”
“No, doofus.” She blocked his second kick with the toe of her Doc Martens. “I got you the job out of self-interest. Having a real folklorist on the crew, vetting the stories, is bound to jack up our credibility.”
He slanted a glance at her from under his bangs. “Not to mention the ratings.”
“Why else would we need credibility?”
“Maybe you should shanghai a real folklorist, then.”
“You’re real. You’re realer than anyone I know.”
“No official credentials though.” Riley ducked his head and pretended to steady the teetering mound of duffels, the hollow yawning in his belly as sharp and fresh as it had been five months ago when Logan had split with no explanation.
“If you hadn’t withdrawn from school—” She slapped her clipboard against her leg. “I will never forgive that shithead dick-weasel. He couldn’t wait one more week to punch his asshole card? One final. That’s all you had left.”
“Don’t forget the thesis. They kind of insist on that before they’ll give you a master’s.” He shrugged. “No degree, no authority.”
“Bullshit. Close enough for Hollywood.” Her lips firmed into a hard line, and in the draft from the open lobby doors, tendrils of blond hair that had escaped from her ponytail writhed like Medusa’s unfortunate hairdo. “Damn it. Now I’m sorry I mentioned the fuck-bucket—”
“Jules.” He caught her wrist. “Enough.”
“Oh fine.” He let go, and she took a deep breath. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him?”
Until that instant, Riley would have claimed nothing could force him to face Logan again, to set himself up for another emotional maelstrom when he hadn’t climbed out of the first one yet. But as if Julie’s words had lit a fire in his belly, he knew he had to do it. It’s your chance to find out why.
“I—”
“Hey, Julie.” Scott, their showrunner, beckoned to Julie from the registration desk. “Can you sort out my reservation? They’ve got me in a single, not a suite.”
“Be right there.” She pointed one long finger at Riley’s nose. “We’re not done.” She zoomed off.
Riley sank down on the back of a sofa. He’d tricked himself into not thinking about the night before Logan disappeared by focusing on the hurt and anger he’d felt afterward. Hurt and anger were easier to handle than the memory of how ridiculously happy he’d been.
When he’d come in from teaching his last TA session, Riley had seen the DVD of Help! sitting on top of the TV, and he’d been sure this would be The Night. Not only was the movie one of his favorites, but it had a theme.
A ring. The perfect lead-in to a proposal.
He’d expected the two white-gold bands he’d spotted a couple of weeks earlier while rummaging in Logan’s T-shirt drawer to make an appearance, maybe over dessert. He’d already planned how he’d say yes—using only words with no Rs in them, because nothing derailed his years of speech therapy like overloaded emotions—before he’d drag Logan to bed and show him exactly how much he loved him. Twice.
Instead, Logan had bailed before his last bite of crème brûlée, claiming an emergency late-night bartending shift. The next day, he’d vanished in a cloud of motorcycle exhaust, along with the rings and all of Riley’s stupid happiness.
Yeah, someday Riley would get over that. Probably the same day the gates of Faerie opened in the back room of the Escondido Walmart.
Julie plowed across the lobby toward him, stopping midway to direct a gaggle of PAs who were transporting the show’s precious night-vision cameras. “Those go in the equipment suite. And be careful.”
Time to come clean. Or at least cleaner. He stood and clutched the cool metal handle of the cart. “Look. I didn’t know he was here. Honest.”
“You knew it was a possibility, though, didn’t you?” She tapped her clipboard with the edge of her phone. “Why else would you propose a location shoot here?”
“Because Portland is supposedly the most haunted city in the Pacific Northwest?” He offered up a conciliatory smile, but she squinted at him, lips pursed.
“Right.”
“If you didn’t trust my motives, why did you approve the shoot?”
“I didn’t approve it. Scott approved it.”
“Since when does Scott do anything other than sign off on your recommendations and call his agent to pitch another show?”
She scowled at her clipboard and tugged her ponytail with the hand that still held her cell phone, her trademark God-this-budget-is-out-of-control tell. “I knew we should have gone for that poltergeist story.”
He held up his hands. “Be reasonable, Jules. The alleged poltergeist moved a hairbrush a quarter of an inch on a slick countertop. The guy lives under a freeway overpass. His paranormal manifestation was probably nothing more than a passing beer truck.”
“Maybe. But for that shoot, we wouldn’t have had to leave LA. No travel. No hotel.” She poked him in the chest with her phone. “No sixteen hours in the equipment van with Zack’s lousy ska mix.”
He captured her hand before the phone could become embedded in his sternum. “The fact that I heard about this story from Logan first doesn’t matter. It’s different, Jules. It could be the one that keeps the show from jumping the shark.” Or haul it out of the tank of circling great whites where it had struggled almost from season one. “It’s all good. I promise.”
“It better be. Because if I can’t even manage a third-rate cable show, you think anybody else in Hollywood will hire me? God.” She shoved her phone in her jacket pocket and scrubbed a hand over her face. “Tell me the truth. Did you originally pitch this story because of jackass dick-bag Logan?”
“In a way, yeah.”
“Riley.” Julie’s voice dropped into her lowest register, the one the crew guys called the Linda Blair special.
What you can’t deny, avoid like hell. “Not because I was looking for him. Swear. But he told me this story the night we met.” Riley had been draw
n to the tale of the Witch’s Castle ghost war because it had all the earmarks of a classic mythic cycle: Romeo and Juliet on the frontier, with hints of a feud that lasted beyond the grave. It hadn’t hurt that the guy telling the story had been hotter than dragon fire. “His grandfather claimed to have seen the manifestation back in the early fifties. So when you asked me to prep a story for you to pitch . . .”
He’d thought of this one, first thing. Despite months of nothing—no word, no email, no freaking text—his brain still launched every new search with a Logan-filter.
God, somehow that needed to stop. As much as he cringed at the notion of giving Logan another chance to trash his heart, maybe facing him was the answer. Riley needed to take this as serendipity. The gods throwing him a bone, or Cerberus taking firm hold of his ass with all three heads and giving a swift virtual shake. Man up or shut up.
“Shit, Riley. The look on your face,” Julie muttered. She tossed her clipboard on the cart, and morphed back into his best friend as if the special effects team had given her an instant CGI makeover. “I’m sorry. But I want you to be over him. That bastard shit-heel cheated on you.”
“Allegedly.”
“Why do you have a different set of standards for him than you do for your work? You’re the king of source-material documentation. You check every tiny fact twice, yet you insist on ignoring the steaming shit-pile of evidence he left behind. I saw it.” Her voice rose above the chatter of the crew and the eighties mix wafting from the hotel’s sound system. “There was enough foil condom confetti on your bedroom floor to set off the metal detectors at the Portland airport, and we were in fricking Eugene.”
Riley winced and gestured for her to keep her voice down. “I know.” Yet he could have sworn on a stack of holy books from six different religions that Logan would never cheat on anybody, even someone as nerdy as Riley.
The man was too forthright. He’d never pulled punches. Had always said what he thought. If he’d grown tired of Riley—and who could blame him?—he’d have said so. No drama. No nonsense. No arguments. Just boom: It’s over. I’ve found someone else.