The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts)

by Steffanie Holmes

  I opened my eyes. The man in black was still leaning through the desk, his face only a few inches from mine. “Boo,” he said, grinning wickedly.

  “Argh! That’s not funny.” My heart hammered against my chest.

  Yup. He was definitely still there.

  “Sorry,” Eric gave me a sly smile. “I was just checking that you were still breathing. I thought maybe you were trying to join me in my eternal slumber.”

  I inched along the bookcase toward the door. “Really not funny. Stay away from me.”

  “Listen, joking aside. I really don’t want to hurt you.” Eric lowered his voice, which only seemed to improve the husky quality of it. “I’m only revealing myself to you now because, so far, you’re the only one that’s been able to see me. I think you might be able to help me. Plus, I’m going crazy being stuck in this house by myself. There’s no one to talk to, and not being able to pick anything up is really limiting my ability to entertain myself.”

  “I’ve seen you …” His words hit home. “You mean, the shadow in the bathroom?”

  Eric nodded. “I didn’t look, I promise. I was just trying to figure out what you were doing in the house.”

  “By watching me in the shower?” I gaped at him, horrified at the thought of that handsome man looking at my less-than-perfect body. For some strange reason, even though the idea was repulsive, it also made my heart surge with desire. Somewhere deep inside me, part of me liked the idea that Eric was watching me. How fucked up was that?

  Eric shook his head forcefully. “I swear on my mother’s grave that I didn’t look. I’m no pervert, Elinor. If a woman is naked with me, it’s going to be because she was begging me to tear her clothes off.”

  Is that an invitation? I gulped back the salacious thought. “How do you know my name?”

  “I read it from your business card. You left your case open on the desk.”

  “How very observant of you. And did you have something to do with the front door?”

  “Yes, but that was strange. I saw you outside, all cold and wet and miserable, and somehow I was able to turn the lock. Apart from placing my foot on a stair when you first came in, it’s the first thing I’ve been able to touch in ten days. So you can see why I’m hopeful you might be able to help me.”

  “Why would I want to help you?”

  “Because you seem like a really nice person.” Eric flashed me a brilliant smile, his dark eyes gleaming mischievously. It was the kind of smile that would have melted my heart, had he been a guy with an actual, literal pulse. Actually, scratch that, it was melting me anyway.

  “I’m not as nice as I look.” I shot back. “Try again.”

  “Fine. You’ll help me because …” Eric gestured to the papers I’d strewn out across the desk. “You’re obviously from my mother’s solicitor’s office, here to clear up the estate. You’ve got a ton of work to do. A literal Mount Everest of work—my mother has money hidden everywhere, and she never hired an accountant, so you’re on your own.”

  “That’s my job. What’s that got to do with you?”

  “I can help. I can tell you where all her secret papers are kept, and the key to the locked drawer. I can tell you about the investments in Arabian oil, and the bank account in Lichtenstein, and the secret house in Santorini. In return, all I ask is that you just try to help me.”

  “Help you do what? What help do ghosts need? About the only thing you look like you could do with is a decent haircut, and I’m lousy with scissors.”

  Eric smirked at my remark, tucking a strand of his black hair behind his ear. “I need you to find out what happened to me. I didn’t drop dead of a heart attack, Elinor. I think I’ve been murdered.” He pointed to the local newspaper sitting on the desk, where a headline announced his tragic death from a hit-and-run collision. “I’m front-page news, but no one seems to be looking for clues. According to that article, the police think it was probably a drunk driver, but I’m not so sure. I think whoever murdered me has covered their tracks pretty well, and maybe they think they’ve got away with it. But I’ve come back from … wherever I’m meant to be, for a reason. I don’t think I can move on with my afterlife until I figure out how I died, and why.”

  “How did you come back? Did you see a light? What about the pearly gates?”

  “I don’t know anything. I can’t remember my death, or even much about the days leading up to it. The last thing I remember was driving up from London to see my mother. So why has my ghost ended up in Marshell House? I didn’t die here. At least, I haven’t seem my body, or any bloodstains.”

  “Oh, God,” I groaned, sinking against the bookcase. “Please don’t let there be a dead body here, too.”

  “You’re a lawyer. I thought you guys loved murder.”

  “That’s criminal defence. I’m a probate attorney. I just do paperwork. Do I have to help you? Can’t you just leave me alone and we call it even?”

  “No can do, I’m afraid.” Eric gave me a broad smile. “You’re too beautiful for me to just ignore.”

  The wind rushed from my lungs, as if someone had punched me in the gut. My mind reeled at his remark. People didn’t usually say that to me, especially not incredibly attractive, suave-looking dead musicians. I wasn’t the pretty one—that was Cindy, with her blonde hair and her model body and her flirtatious laugh. I was the smart one, which men usually found intimidating, or the drunk one, which men usually found hilarious in a sad kind of way.

  I searched Eric’s face for a sign that he was joking again, or that he was giving me a line. But his eyes met mine and held my gaze. I found myself falling into his stare, losing myself in those wide dark pools.

  This is a really bad idea. But, he’s so ...

  “Fine,” I shrugged. “I’ll do some googling for you, but that’s it. And you’ve got to stand over there. I’m finding it hard enough to concentrate with a ghost in the room, without you being all up in my grill.”

  “All up in your grill?” Eric sneered. “Where are you from, the harsh streets of Harlem?”

  I felt wounded. The ghost was mocking me. That wasn’t cool. “Chelsea, actually. Its just slang. I only say it ironically. Do you want me to help you or not?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. Thank you,” Eric bowed again, a strangely formal motion for a man I knew to be some kind of famous rock star.

  As Eric turned away, I took a couple of moments to inspect his arse (tight and sculpted, yum). Eric floated back across the room, his black motorcycle boots hovering a few inches above the carpet. Feeling nervous with Eric’s gaze on me, I slid back into the desk chair, opened up my browser, and typed in Eric’s name. It didn’t take long for all the headlines to start appearing:

  ROCK STAR VIOLINIST DIES IN TRAGIC HIT-AND-RUN

  CAR ACCIDENT TAKES OUT GOTH ROCKER

  POLICE LOOKING FOR 2ND CAR IN MARSHELL WRECK

  HUNDREDS BUY TICKETS TO ERIC MARSHELL’S FUNERAL

  MARSHELL’S BAND TO RELEASE TRIBUTE SONG

  I clicked on one of the articles. “Look at this,” I said, jabbing my finger at the screen. “It looks like you were run off the road just outside of Crookshollow. The police found two sets of tracks at the scene. The other car sped off. There were no witnesses. They’re looking for information about the driver, but so far nothing’s come up. All they know is that it was a Golf with high-performance tires. But there’s nothing in here that indicates they’re treating this as a murder investigation.”

  “I have nothing to indicate it, either, except a gut feeling. And since I don’t actually have a gut anymore, I’m going to assume this overwhelming sense of injustice is telling me something. Does the article say anything else?”

  I scanned the colour image that accompanied the article. “Holy shit, your car was an absolute mess. No wonder you died.”

  “I can’t see from over here.” Eric said dryly.

  “Fine. You can come a bit closer. But don’t touch me or I am calling a priest to exorcise the shit ou
t of you.”

  “Fair enough.” Eric floated back to the desk and leaned over my shoulder. His hand hung down at his side, and his fingers fell through the desk. I stared at the stump of his arm disappearing into the wood. It was strange, but I was already used to the idea of him being a ghost. Perhaps it was all that gothic literature I read in university, but I wasn’t afraid of him, not really. I was fascinated. I was the heroine of my own gothic tale. I just hoped mine had a happier ending than most.

  “You’re right,” said Eric from behind me, his voice dark. “It is a real mess.” I thought I detected a tremor in his voice. I glanced over and saw him staring intently at the screen, his eyes darting into every corner of the image, fixing on every detail of the accident that had taken his life.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about … that you might not want to …” I quickly hit the BACK button. The search menu flashed up again.

  “No, Elinor, it’s fine. It’s just a shock. I am … I was only 35. I didn’t expect to be dealing with this—” with a flick of his wrist he indicated his ghostly form. “—just now. I had more music to write, more shows to play. Please, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He reached out for my hand, his fingers passing through my skin. When he touched me, a fire leapt from my fingers and exploded along my arm, as if I’d just jammed my fingers in an electric socket.

  I leapt back in shock, yanking my arm away from him. The ghost of his touch still played against my skin. I rubbed my fingers against my palm, but the hot, tingling sensation didn’t go away. “I said not to touch me!”

  “I’m sorry,” Eric breathed, staring down at his own hand as if he couldn’t quite understand how it was attached to his body. “Really, it was an accident. I didn’t mean—”

  He looked so guilty, and I felt bad for him. He had just died, after all. “It’s OK,” I sank back into the chair. “You just surprised me.”

  “I promise I’ll be more careful.” Eric was still staring down at his hand, his expression unreadable. An awkward silence descended upon us.

  I turned back to the screen, hoping to find something to ease the tension. “Hey, this is new.” I clicked on a link to a news story that had gone live only an hour ago, squinting at the screen to read the title. THIEVES RAMSACK THE HOUSE OF ERIC MARSHELL.

  Just days after the famous rock violinist was found dead in a horrific car accident, Devon police report that Marshell’s country property has been broken into. The break-in occurred last night. Neighbours reported hearing a window smash, and an unfamiliar black car was spotted leaving the quiet cul-de-sac around 3am. Although several rooms in Marshell’s house were trashed—with objects strewn across the floor, and furnishings and paintings slashed with a knife—it doesn’t appear as if anything was taken. Police will issue a full report once they’ve produced an inventory of the house, but they ask if anyone has any information relating to Eric Marshell’s death or this break-in, to contact them.”

  “That’s odd,” Eric said. “Why would someone break into my home?”

  “All sorts of reasons,” I said. “It could be completely unrelated to your death. You were quite famous, so I’m told. Perhaps it was some crazed fan wanting to sniff all your underwear, or an enterprising crook wanting to grab all the Eric Marshell possessions he could to auction off on eBay.”

  “But then why wasn’t anything taken?”

  “I’m no expert, but I’ve read my fair share of detective stories, so I can hazard a guess. Usually, when people break in somewhere and smash a bunch of stuff but don’t take anything, it’s because they’re looking for something in particular. You in possession of any rare diamonds? First-edition manuscripts? Possibly magical ancient artefacts that transport anyone who touches them to another dimension?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I do have a nice record collection, with a few rare pressings, but—” Eric pointed at one of the images of a oak bookcase crowded with stacks of vinyl. “—it looks as if they haven’t even touched it.”

  “And there’s nothing else you can think of? You’re not into anything illegal, are you?” Musicians were often into drugs. I found myself hoping that Eric wasn’t. I couldn’t bear to be around someone who did that shit, not after—

  Don’t think about him now, Elinor. Focus on Eric.

  “Not unless classical music and expensive whisky have suddenly been outlawed. I can’t think of what could be … oh, no.” Eric pointed at the screen again. “Zoom in on that picture.”

  “Don’t get too close!”

  “I won’t. Please?”

  I rolled the mouse closer. Eric peered at the image. It showed the damage to one of the rooms in his house. It was a kind of salon, with a vaulted ceiling and comfortable, overstuffed couches lining the walls. It was probably a really nice room when it wasn’t such a mess. Oak coffee tables had been broken and flipped over, and several of the paintings on the walls were torn to shreds, their frames smashed against the ground. A grand piano stood open in one corner, the top torn off and broken into splinters.

  “That’s odd,” Eric said.

  “What’s odd?”

  “This is my music studio. It’s not a recording studio, just a room I use to compose and play music. There’s a lot more damage in here than in other rooms.”

  I pointed to an ornate wooden frame in the corner of the room. “Was that where you kept your violin? It’s empty.”

  “It’s supposed to be empty. I have two identical violins, so I always have a spare in case one of them needs repairs, but both of them came on tour with me.”

  “Are they identical?”

  “They look pretty similar, but they’re made of different woods and have slightly different properties. I can tell them apart, and so can most of the hardcore fans. They even have names.”

  “Of course they do,” I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess, Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Actually, Tristan and Isolde. I use Isolde for all my promo and most of the stage show, and Tristan for certain songs that require a more delicate sound. Do you think the thieves were looking for my violins? Why would they want that? They were hardly valuable instruments. I play Cremona. They’re made in China. It’s the same brand my father used. They’re sold at every corner music store for less than 500 quid.”

  “Uh, hello? eBay. I told you.” I glanced at the image again. “But I think you’re right. I don’t think they were looking for your instruments.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look at how all that stuff is piled up on top of the stand. There’s some torn papers, and broken bits of that guitar. They were still rifling through your stuff long after they saw the stand was empty. It’s all a bit odd. If you were breaking into someone’s house, why bother smashing all their stuff? Wouldn’t you want to grab what you wanted, and run?”

  Eric reached behind his head, scratching a spot behind his dark curls. “Maybe it’s a revenge thing. Someone is getting me back by trashing all my stuff.”

  “But you’re dead. What would be the point?”

  Eric shrugged. “I’m out of ideas.”

  “Me too. I think we need to start from the very beginning. Maybe it would help if you went through what you do remember about your death?”

  “That would be a great idea, if I could remember what happened. That’s the thing about being a ghost. I can only remember certain things about … before. I remember heading out on tour, and racing from the airport to play our last show in London. I remember being on stage, feeling the heat of the lights in my face. I remember driving up here as soon as I got off the stage to see Mother, but I don’t remember why. I only remember that I felt scared.”

  “Well, that’s something. What would you be scared of?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you have your car with you at the show?”

  Eric shook his head. “No, it’s probably back at my home in Devon. I must’ve rented a car. What car did it say I was driving in the article?”

  I scanned the text.
“You’re right. It was a Fiat, rented that evening. So you must have been desperate to get up to Crookshollow, to go rent a car specifically for that purpose.”

  “I’ve known you twenty minutes and already you’ve figured out more than I’ve managed to do in eight days.”

  I beamed at his praise. “Perhaps you’ll remember more once we dig deeper into this.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Eric looked uncertain.

  My phone beeped. I checked the message, thinking it might be from Cindy. She’d promised to text and tell me how last night had gone, but I hadn’t heard from her. But it wasn’t Cindy, it was the car rental company, informing me they had just dropped the car off at the house. That gave me an idea. I looked up another report on the car crash, and pulled up a map of Crookshollow. A few seconds later, I was on my feet. “Come with me.”

  I grabbed the keys to the house from the table (I was not going to make that mistake again), and flung open the door. Eric was still standing in the door to the study, watching me with a concerned look on his face. “Come on,” I gestured for the door. “I haven’t got all day.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m doing nothing. We are going to get your memory back.”

  “And how will we do that?”

  “By visiting the site of your death.” I said triumphantly. Eric’s expression froze. “Come on, Eric. It’s the only way. I don’t know how many ghost stories you’ve read, but ghosts always have a connection to the place they died. If going there will jog your memory, it might give us more to work with.”

  “I don’t know, Elinor. I don’t think it’s going to work. I don’t think I can leave the house. As soon as I get close to the walls, my body is flooded with this overwhelming sensation that I need to turn back.”

  “You said that having me around gives you the ability to do things you couldn’t normally do, like feel solid objects. So why couldn’t it allow you to go outside? Just stick close to me. But not too close,” I added, for good measure.