He shuffled to his living room and flipped on the eighty-inch television hanging on the wall above the fireplace. Grayhaven still didn’t feel like home, but he’d get used to it. The house was six times bigger than the penthouse he'd rented downtown. What the hell was he thinking buying such a monstrous place? It wasn’t like he’d ever have a family to fill it up.
He settled on a college football game, turned up the volume to drown out the silence of his empty estate, and padded into the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, he pulled out some lunch meat to make a sandwich and bumped a jar of pickles with his elbow. He straightened the container so the label faced front like all the others and scanned the rest of the fridge contents to make sure everything was in its place. The meats and cheeses sat in their own separate containers, neatly labeled with the store’s expiration date and the date he opened them. One percent milk sat on the top shelf next to the two-liter of Coke, both turned so the labels faced the front. Fresh fruit sat color-coded on the bottom shelf. Everything appeared to be in order.
He let out a breath and closed the door.
Some honey ham and Swiss on a slice of whole grain bread with organic brown mustard would hit the spot. He assembled his dinner, poured a glass of Coke, and took his meal to the table.
Picking up his sandwich, he was about to dig in when the faint jingle of a door knob rattling drew his attention. He paused mid-bite and listened.
Must be my imagination again.
He shrugged and took a bite of his dinner. Then he heard it again. Louder this time, it sounded like it came from the front door. He paced across the living room to check it out. He couldn’t see anything through the damn peephole, so he went to the window by the door. The porch light was on, but no one was there. He opened the front door and looked out.
“Hello?” No response. “What the hell?” He closed and locked the front door, then set the alarm for good measure.
Must be going out of my fucking mind.
He went back to the kitchen to finish his sandwich, and he heard it again. This time, it came from the back door.
“Aw, hell!” He shot to his feet, stomped to the door, and flipped on the porch light. Nothing again. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned his forehead against the wall.
Get it together, Logan.
He took a deep breath, resolved to finish his sandwich and forget about it. Shaking his head, he exhaled a curse and turned around in time to see his dinner, plate and all, clank to the ground. The sturdy stoneware didn’t break, but his sandwich lay in pieces scattered across the floor.
What the hell?
Now he knew he was losing it. He gathered up the pieces of sandwich and threw them in the trash before using the broom and dustpan to sweep up the crumbs. While he was at it, he got out the mop and floor cleaner with bleach and scrubbed the spot where the sandwich landed.
Might as well do the whole floor. The housekeeper had scrubbed it the day before, and she’d do it again tomorrow, but the rhythm and order of cleaning helped take his mind off the crazy shit that was happening. He moved the mop back and forth, back and forth, counting the number of strokes as he cleaned. Satisfied with an even five hundred, he put the cleaning supplies in the utility closet and picked up the plate.
First my keys fall, and now the plate. That’s some coincidence. What the hell was wrong with him? He was going crazy. That was the only explanation. Losing his goddamn mind. With a grunt, he chunked the plate against the back door, shattering it into a thousand pieces that clinked on the marble floor like rain on a tin roof.
He raked his hands through his hair and leaned on the table. His mind was playing tricks on him. The house was too damn big for one person to live in, and his imagination was running wild. He needed to get it under control.
But first he needed to clean up this mess. He shoved off the table and felt the unmistakable touch of a cool hand on his shoulder. He jerked around, his fist flying into the air. No one was there.
Shit.
He stormed to the utility closet, pulled out the broom, and cleaned up the shattered glass. Once every tiny shard was in the trash, he headed upstairs to change into his workout clothes. He’d pump some iron. Focus on his body and forget he was losing his mind.
In his private gym down the hall from his bedroom, Logan pushed his body to its limits. His treadmill sat idle; he preferred to do his running in the open air. But he used his weight machines nearly every day. Thick, black padding covered the floor from wall to wall. Equipment and free weights lined the perimeter, and a large mirror hung across from the window.
Exercising was a sacred ritual for him, free from the distractions of the outside world and the barrage of emotions that clouded his mind. He could clear his head and focus on his body.
He worked. Pushing. Pulling. Lifting. Three sets of fifteen on each side. He worked until his muscles burned with exertion and every invasive thought drained from his mind.
Drenched with sweat, the tips of his hair hung wet, dripping on his forehead. Now, that’s more like it. His muscles ached as he stretched, a welcome relief from the pain in his mind. He peeled off his clothes and dropped them into the appropriate hampers before stepping into the shower for the third time today. But the peace of mind he achieved in the gym didn’t last. Alone, with nothing but the sound of the hot water pelting his skin to distract him, his thoughts drifted back to the crazy shit that happened earlier.
He was out of his mind. That’s all it could be. And the sad thing was, it didn’t surprise him. It was just a matter of time before he lost control of it all. The visions, the emotions. They were driving him crazy, and now he was hearing things too. Hell, he was feeling things. He was positive someone touched him in the kitchen.
Turning off the water, he heard it again. His dresser drawer opened and closed.
Hell, I’m not even going to look.
A bullet to the brain had crossed his mind before. On several occasions. Maybe the world would be better off without a lunatic like him running around. Maybe…Shit. He wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die. But sometimes he couldn’t get the thought out of his head. It became an obsession, thinking of all the ways he could end his life, right down to every fragment of detail. If he was going to do it, he’d want to be sure he did it right. He wouldn’t OD on sleeping pills or any sissy shit like that. Too many people made it through that way. He didn’t want to end up a vegetable. He’d definitely go for a bullet to the brain. Quick and easy.
But messy. He wouldn’t want to leave brains splattered all over the walls for someone else to clean up. He could lie on the bed and put a pillow over his head. Sandwich his target between the pillow and the mattress. That would minimize the mess. His housekeeper would probably find him. No one else had a key. He’d have to write letters to his mom and his sister. He’d probably write one to little Caitlyn, too, for her to read when she got older. He’d want her to know how much he loved her. His will was in order, so his money would go to all the people who deserved it. Trent could take care of that for him. He was Logan’s lawyer, after all.
What the hell am I doing? He was already dressed in flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeve thermal, but he didn’t remember doing it. He was too engrossed in planning his own death. That’s why he didn’t own a gun.
I’ve got to stop thinking about this shit.
Order. He needed order. Something to organize. It was the only thing that helped him when he spiraled down like this. He raced downstairs to the living room and threw open the doors to a dark mahogany cabinet. His music collection sat inside. Hundreds of CD’s exemplified his eclectic tastes. From Sinatra to Santana, Beethoven to the B-52’s, Logan had it all. He’d long since gone all digital, but he hung on to the little plastic discs in their clear jewel cases. This was his secret form of therapy.
Last time he was in the cabinet, he’d organized the music by genre. This time, he was going straight alphabetical. He reached in and swept his arm across the shelf, sending th
e discs toppling onto the thick, Persian rug. He spread them out and set about organizing the collection, one disc at a time.
Two hours later, he’d meticulously placed each CD in perfect alphabetical order. He stepped back to look at his work and breathed a sigh of relief. His mind was finally clear again. He closed the cabinet and went to his bedroom, where he popped a sleeping pill and collapsed into bed.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I can’t believe you talked me into this. It’s kind of last minute, you know.” Allison sifted through a rack of dresses at an upscale resale shop on Grand River. “How’d you get these tickets, anyway?”
Tina held up a hot pink ensemble, but put it away when Allison crinkled her nose. “I got them from Barb. She was going to take her husband, but he came down with the stomach flu, so she gave the tickets to me.”
“And you couldn’t find a date?” Allison draped a royal blue dress over her arm and examined a pale peach one on the rack.
“No. I could get a date. I just didn’t want one. I felt like spending the evening with my best friend.”
Allison stopped and rolled her eyes. “Right. What’s the real reason?”
“Oh, Allie. You’ve been out of the dating scene for too long. Taking a date to an event like this would be like taking sand to the beach. Why be stuck with one guy all night, when the place is going to be swarming with them?”
She laughed. “I should’ve known. But you better be careful, Tina. People are going to start thinking I’m your date.”
“Oohh! Maybe they already do.” Tina’s eyes danced with excitement. “That makes us all the more intriguing, don’t you think?”
“You’re a piece of work. I’m going to go try these on.” She headed to the dressing room, with Tina on her heels.
“If these don’t work out, my offer still stands.”
“I’m not letting you buy me a dress. I’ll make one of them work.” She closed the curtain to the tiny dressing room and tried one on.
“Okay. But I feel like I owe you, dragging you into this on the day of.”
Allison stepped out of the dressing room in a royal blue, ankle-length dress. It had a beaded halter-top that hugged her curves in all the right places and just enough glitter to make her sparkle without being gaudy.
“Wow,” Tina said. “You did make one work. I’m jealous.”
“You really like it?” She turned in front of the three-way mirror and smiled.
“You might want to take a stick, so you can beat the guys off you. Allison, you look hot.”
“This dress is amazing. Thank you for inviting me. I know I give you a hard time, but I’m actually excited about tonight.”
Tina hugged her. “Good. And I bet Logan Mitchell is going to be excited to see you in that dress.”
Her heart fluttered at the thought. “Oh, shut up. He is not interested in me.” Though she kind of wished he were.
Wait. No, she didn’t.
“We’ll see. You know, for a psychic, you can be pretty dense.”
“Gee, thanks.” She slipped into the dressing room to put her clothes back on. No need to try on the other dress; the blue one was perfect.
“Now, come on. You may have won on the dress, but I am taking you to get your hair done. You’re in serious need of a trim.”
“Tina…”
“Allie, just think of it as a thank you gift for me dragging you around to all these pretentious gatherings of assholes. I’d probably be in some pretty deep shit without you.”
* * *
Sprawled out on the bed, Logan thought he heard a faint rapping on the door. He teetered on the edge of sleep, slipping in and out of consciousness—barely coming to the surface, only to be pulled back under into darkness.
The knocking continued, followed by a muffled male voice calling his name. “Logan! Logan, you in there?”
His eyes fluttered open and adjusted to his surroundings as the knocking and the voice continued. He sat up in bed and glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Ten-thirty.
Holy hell. He checked his cell phone—four missed calls. He must’ve been out cold all night. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
“Logan!” The voice continued.
“I’m coming. I’m coming.” He trudged down the stairs and opened the front door.
“Man, what happened to you? You look like hell.” Trent slapped him on the shoulder and stepped through the doorway. “You were supposed to meet me at Starbucks at nine. What’s going on?”
“Rough night.” He shut the door and followed Trent into the living room. “Sorry about that. I overslept.”
“I see that.”
He looked down and grimaced. He still had his pajamas on. “Shit. Let me go get dressed.”
“All right.” Trent dropped onto the couch, turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels while Logan headed upstairs to change.
As soon as he reached the top of the steps, a faint voice echoed in the hallway. “Why?”
“You say something?” He called down to Trent.
“Nope.”
He shook his head and continued to his bedroom. Sloughing out of his pajamas, he threw on a pair of torn jeans and a pale blue button up.
“How could you?” The voice, though faint, was distinctly female.
What the hell? “What are you watching?” he yelled to Trent.
“Football.”
“There a commercial on?”
“Nah. Just the game.”
It wasn’t the TV. Shit. Here we go again. He pulled on some shoes and hurried back downstairs before anything else could happen. He’d dealt with enough of that shit last night.
Trent sat on the plush, tan sofa facing the TV, so Logan settled into the matching chair. He looked at his friend, trying to find the right words so he didn’t sound like a dumb ass.
“What’s up?” he said instead.
“Nothin’, man. You okay?” Though Trent was short on words, Logan could feel the concern radiating from him. He could see it in his eyes.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” They stared at the TV, though Logan couldn’t pay attention to the game. He wasn’t fine. There was something going on in his house, even if he didn’t want to believe it, and he had to get it off his chest.
“You remember yesterday, when I told you about the noises when I was in the shower? And my keys?” He leaned his elbows on his knees and wrung his hands.
Trent raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I remember.”
“It happened again. In the kitchen last night.”
“Oh?”
“Shit, Trent. I think I’m going out of my mind. I was sitting in the kitchen, and I could’ve sworn I heard the doorknob moving. It was loud. I checked it, looked out the window. There was nothing there, man.”
Trent looked at him and raised his chin, a silent invitation for Logan to continue.
“Then I heard it at the back door, and when I went to look, my plate flew off the table. It flew off the table and crashed to the ground.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a ghost.”
“You really believe in that crap?”
Trent turned to face him and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees to mirror Logan’s posture. “I don’t know if I believe in it or not. But dude, if it’s bothering you, maybe you should get it checked out.”
“What? Like call in some ghost busters?” He chuckled.
“Why not? At least you’d know then. Don’t let it get to you, man. Seriously.”
“Yeah…” Logan looked at the TV for a moment, then turned back to his buddy. “So, you ready for tonight?” Hopefully the smile on his face would signal the end of the uncomfortable conversation.
“Hell, yeah! It’s gonna rock.” Trent held out his arm, and Logan bumped his fist. “Hey, maybe the mysterious blonde will be there, and you can get you some of that action.” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke.
“Hmm. Something tells me she’s not that
kind of girl.” Logan rubbed at the scruff on his face and thought about that long, blonde hair. How it framed her big, chocolate-brown eyes. And that creamy white skin looked so soft to the touch. Did she feel as good as she looked?
“You’re not interested in her at all.” Sarcasm dripped from Trent’s words.
“No. She’s...No.”
“Uh-huh…Well, I’ve got to get going. I need to pick up my tux from the cleaners.”
“I need to get cleaned up, myself. I’ll see you later.”
Logan walked Trent to the door, then turned to head upstairs to shower and shave. He paused at the bottom of the staircase, his thoughts drifting back to the beautiful blonde. She'd been so upset. And she was talking to someone that night, but the staircase had been empty. It was puzzling as hell.
After all the experiences he’d had in the house the day before, and now he was hearing voices… That blonde was talking to someone. Before he hit the shower, an online search for some ghost busters wouldn’t hurt. Maybe the so-called experts could at least give him some peace of mind. Or prove he was indeed insane. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to try.
He passed up his bedroom and turned into the third doorway on the left. His home office. A thick, hunter green rug covered most of the floor, and various plaques and thank-you letters from the scores of charities he’d contributed to decorated the walls. His mementos. Reminders that he could use his powers for good. It always gave him a chuckle to think of it like that. Like he was a fucking superhero. Yeah, right.
He flipped open his laptop and typed ghost hunters in Detroit into the search field. The number of hits surprised him. Who knew there’d be that many groups chasing imaginary spirits? He scrolled down, skimming the titles until he reached the Detroit Area Paranormal Society. It sounded legit, so he clicked the link.
We are a paranormal investigation team dedicated to helping those in need. We aim to prove or disprove your situation with accurate, scientific equipment. The site looked professional; it was well laid-out and all the links worked. What could it hurt? Before he could talk himself out of it, he dialed the number.
To Catch a Spirit (Spirit Chasers Book 1) Page 4
