Dreamscape
Unable to deny his own translucence, Dr. Jason Bowen determines his lack of physical substance could only mean one thing—he’s a ghost. Murdered more than a century before, Jason haunts his house and ponders the treachery that took his life.
When Lanie O’Keefe arrives with plans to renovate her newly purchased Victorian mansion, Jason discovers, ghost or not, he’s still very much a man.
Despite its derelict condition and haunted reputation, Lanie couldn’t be happier with her new home, but then she has no idea a spirit follows her every move throughout the day and shares her captivating warmth at night. Jason soon discovers he can travel through Lanie’s dreams and finds himself reliving the days before his murder with Lanie by his side.
It took one hundred and twenty years for love to find them, but there’s that insurmountable little matter of Jason being dead.
Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal
Length: 73,800 words
DREAMSCAPE
Rose Anderson
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
DREAMSCAPE
Copyright © 2011 by Rose Anderson
E-book ISBN: 1-61034-560-6
First E-book Publication: July 2011
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
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DEDICATION
To my wonderful family who tell me from the sidelines, “Write tight mom, for God’s sake write tight.” I love you guys. There’s hope for me yet!
DREAMSCAPE
ROSE ANDERSON
Copyright © 2011
Prologue
Lanie walked up just as the freckle-faced twelve-year-old boy picked a plum-sized rock from the crumbling fence line and told his companions, “Okay, top left.” His taller fifteen-year-old friend scoffed sarcastically. “No way are you gonna hit that. It’s too high.”
Carl, another boy in the throng, agreed. “Max’s right. It’s too high, Paulie. You’re gonna miss it.”
“No I won’t. Watch.” He drew his arm back and let the missile fly. They were right. It missed the upstairs window by several feet.
The group of boys howled.
“Try again, Paulie.”
“Hey, it’s my turn now,” another boy told the throng.
Determined to save face, Paulie told them, “No wait…one more, I’m gonna do this.” Putting everything he had behind it, he quickly let another stone fly. This one hit the mark, cracking, but not breaking, a portion of the leaded fan window over the front door.
Amid the congratulatory hoots, another voice was heard. “Stop that!”
“Get lost, stupid bitch,” Max told the younger girl who dared interrupt their fun. “Go look in the garbage cans for your stupid bitch mother. Maybe your dinner’s ready.”
The mob laughed. Another boy chortled. “Yeah, go find your drunken mom.”
Another jeer followed from somewhere behind him. “Yeah, your dinner’s ready in the dumpster behind McDonalds.”
Those words stung Lanie, but she didn’t let it show. The whole town knew her mother drank too much. They knew too that the judge said she couldn’t live with her anymore. She hadn’t seen her mother in four months and didn’t even know where she was. She lived with a foster family now. “Stop it, or I’m going to tell Officer Bob you’re breaking all the windows in the Bowen Mansion.”
“Oooh I’m gon-na tell Of-fi-cer Bob…” Another boy mimicked in a sing-song baby voice. Amid cruel sneers and jeers, other painful words echoed.
Ignoring her now, the boys waiting their turn to throw let loose in a salvo. Their rocks hit the windows on the first floor, shattering two and breaking one of the slatted shutters that now swung by a single hinge.
“Please stop it!”
“Whoa, nice shot!” Max bent to find another rock. “Watch this one…”
“Stop it!” Seeing the boy poised to throw, Lanie ran up and shoved Max. Her slight form was just enough to make him miss, and his rock landed in the front yard. Spitting angrily, he turned and pushed her hard into the fence where she scraped her arms and palms on the jagged stone wall. A tear in her sleeve showed a cut and bloody elbow. Max, outraged that a stupid fourth-grade bitch interrupted their fun, did what his father always did to teach his stupid stepmother a lesson. He kicked her hard in the leg. He wished he wore a belt.
Crying out in pain, Lanie tumbled over the sharp stones. The sound was like blood in the water. They set on her like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Grabbing handfuls of dirt and damp slimy leaves they rubbed them on her clothes and face, and, still not satisfied, they spit in her hair.
Bloody and crying she covered her head with her hands while they dumped other slime from the curb over her head. Max drew his leg back to kick her again but Paulie grabbed him away. His finger pointing toward the top of the house, he asked in a frightened tone, “What the hell is that?”
“What…?”
The rattling window glowed in blue light. Anyone looking up could clearly see the man standing in it. They ran shrieking down the street leaving the sobbing girl behind. Who cared about her? They’d seen the ghost of Jason Bowen, and everyone knew
he killed kids every time he appeared.
* * * *
Jason Bowen stood in the window looking on. For years now, every once in a while, a pack of little bastards would break his windows and the bank would come and board them up the next day. His house had sat vacant a long while with its broken windows and weeds gone wild. He could only imagine the look of it from the street. On one hand he didn’t mind really, for the sorry state of his property meant one thing—the last of that family had finally left his home. And it had only taken a hundred and twenty-three years.
These packs of hyenas came and went over the years. Even when Margaret was alive, the occasional rabble desiring to scare the reclusive old woman would throw a rock at the house. But this latest mob was well over the top of boyish pranks. In his opinion, that was due to the taller, obviously older boy who egged the younger ones on —a bad seed if ever he did see one.
There was nothing to be done about the window breaking. Had he flesh and bone, he’d catch them and demand they work off their vandalism. He’d demand, too, their parents keep a tighter rein on their brats. He’d been watching as the little black-haired girl tried to stop their destruction and it filled him with rage when he saw the young savages abusing her. That was more than enough. He rattled the windows and showed himself, and predictably the little bullies ran. Watching her now as she staggered to her feet, he felt his heart ache for her. Poor little sweetheart, I’m sorry I couldn’t help more than I did.
* * * *
Wiping her dirt- and tear-streaked eyes, Lanie attempted to brush the grime from her clothes and long wavy hair. Her leg and scrapes were hurting and she was dirty and her new shirt was torn. Her foster parents wouldn’t be happy when they saw her. Though she didn’t want to lie, she’d tell them she just fell. It was better that way because she was afraid. She didn’t want the Berglunds to send her away. Living with them was the first nice home she ever had, and she loved them. Just last week they asked her to call them Mom and Pop. Little hands closing on the bars of the wrought iron gate, she stared up at the top window. She dreamt she lived here with a brown-haired boy. He couldn’t see her or talk to her, but she could see him.
Though he knew he could only be seen when he wanted it so, Jason retreated to the shadows anyway. He didn’t want to scare her, too. She said loudly in his direction, “Thank you for chasing them away. When I grow up I’m going to live here, too.” With that she turned and limped away.
For some reason the words of a child brought him an odd comfort.
Chapter 1
“I’m so excited, Ben, look!” Lanie held out her trembling hand. “I’m shaking all over. I’ve never been inside the gate before.”
Looking up at the massive house with its several boarded windows and shutters barely attached, Ben Danowski turned to her in surprise. “Lanie, are you sayin’ you bought this place without looking inside?”
She laughed lightly. “Pretty reckless, huh?” She went on to explain how she’d loved the old place ever since she was a little girl. While other children called it haunted and broke windows, she’d dreamt it was her house, and now it was. She had yet to go inside but knew by the realtor’s paperwork the house was filled with whatever furnishings Margaret Mason, the last of her family, had left when she died.
What she didn’t mention was she felt she already knew every inch of the place because her dreams often took her here. She’d seen enough in those dreams that she didn’t need to see the inside before she signed the contract. As both tried to unload the property for nearly twenty-four years, her sight-unseen purchase had surprised and delighted the realtor and the bank president. It didn’t matter if the antiques of her dreams filled the house or if the rooms were empty. All that mattered was the house was hers.
Ben knew while old lady Mason lived, the house had been in pretty good condition and was closed up tight after she died. He told her, “I think you’re going to find the Bowen house is basically sound. Had it been any other house you were buying sight unseen, I’d say you’d bought a Pandora’s Box of trouble.” His father’s good friend Frank Wurley kept an eye on the house through all the years it had sat vacant. Living across the street like he did, Frank made a daily check for broken windows and most often was able to get them replaced within twenty-four hours. He gave up trying to keep up with the regularly vandalized atrium. But more than Lanie’s neighbor, Frank was the president at the First National Bank, which held the Bowen title in trust. They’d discussed the three unusual stipulations in Margaret Mason’s will. The house was never to be rented, and the bank was to use whatever monies necessary from the estate to keep it in livable condition for the next owner, whoever that turned out to be, and for however long it took to sell. The most unusual stipulation had only been revealed after the deed was signed over to Lanie. The remaining estate, everything left of the original Bowen and Mason holdings, would go to the new owner. But only after they restored the house to its former glory and resided in it themselves for no less than an entire year and a day.
Ben had to wonder about that unusual stipulation. As sizable as that estate might have been twenty years ago, few people today had the financial resources to invest in such a huge undertaking. That Lanie did was due entirely to her coming into an inheritance recently. From the local gossip, Margaret Mason made three odd additions to her will in her last month. Initially she was going to leave her estate to the church as she had no surviving relatives, but she’d called a meeting with Mr. Wurley and her lawyer.
“Both Mr. Wurley and the lawyer tried talking her out of her refusal to rent until the property sold. In the end though, her lawyer wrote the codicil exactly so.” She looked at him, “The ‘live in the house for a year and a day’ thing is odd though, don’t you think?”
“It is.” Ben chuckled. “Especially since the locals say it’s haunted.”
Looking up at the sorry looking structure, Lanie laughed. “It does look the part, doesn’t it? So the deal is, if I can rustle up enough backbone to stay here that long, I guess I’ll be worthy to inherit the mysterious Bowen-Mason estate.”
“It could be sizable…”
“Or it could be nothing after this much time. The stock market hasn’t been doing too good for a while. But I’m not counting on there being anything anyway. If there is money coming after a year then great, it’ll go right into the clinic. If not…” She shrugged.
Lanie explained how she’d had several in-depth conversations with Mr. Wurley before she signed the contract. From all he’d said, she was sure any issues she’d find would be cosmetic. In the end she could repair or replace those things as needed. “He didn’t want me here until the end of the week, but the deed has been signed over and I’ve waited so long, I see no reason to wait another four days. He told me once he got the cleaning company in here it would be ‘turnkey ready’.”
I don’t know about that, Ben said to himself eyeing the house. There might be unforeseen issues with the plumbing, the roof, or anything else after twenty-plus years. In its heyday it was a grand old Victorian painted lady. In its present vandalized condition, it was the haunted Bowen Mansion. He thought he might as well toss the idea out there just in case. “You know, Lanie, you can always rebuild if you have to. A twelve-acre lot has loads of potential.”
She shook her head. “It would literally have to be condemned before I’d do that.”
He lifted an eyebrow at the structure. At least it wasn’t that bad.
Because the main gate at the front had an old iron lock whose keyhole was rusted over with no chance of opening, they walked along the stone wall until they came to the second gate that led to the long-forgotten walled garden tucked behind the dilapidated mansion. Knowing the iron gate at the far end of the stone wall had two halves chained together, Lanie had asked Ben to bring bolt cutters to make short work of getting inside. It was quite rusty and surprisingly noisy when she shoved it open. Unseen under the pile of debris a bloated raccoon carcass dragged along with the sweep of th
e gate, sending a sweet stench of rot into the air and leaving a swath of wriggling maggots in its wake.
Gagging, Lanie covered her mouth and nose with her hand and spoke through her fingers, “Oh yuck.”
“Whew, that’s nasty. We’ll clean that up right away.”
Predictably the side of the house was in better condition than the façade which proved just too irresistible to rock-throwing vandals. To the side of the house sat a sorry-looking gazebo and the remains of what must have been an impressive Victorian clock garden with remnant spindly flowers waiting in turn for their hour to open. Having personal experience with clock gardens, Ben decided he’d take care of that project himself. The geometric-shaped hedge had overgrown but looked otherwise healthy and would benefit from careful pruning. The lilacs had dead sections, but new suckers had come up with the drenching rain the week before. Assessing, he knew his landscaping crew would make short work of the dozen or so acres surrounding the house, no more than five days for the work up front, seven at the most. The back yard and the gazebo would take longer, and he told her so.
She nodded. “I figured it would take time, it does look pretty bad.”
To Ben’s trained eye, the grounds looked far worse than they were. “I think you’ll be surprised when we’re done. It actually looks worse than it is.”
Directly behind the house they trudged through years of brush trying to get to the fountain. Lanie stood with her hands on her hips and shook her head in wonder. “I had no idea there were this many statues back here.” There had to be at least a dozen. Most were moss-covered marble, but several were bronzes with green patina.
Ben was surprised to see that many, surprised, too, they weren’t headless. “All this growth must have saved them from the vandals.” Holding a prickly raspberry cane out of Lanie’s way, he mentioned offhandedly, “I don’t think you’ll get fruit this year after we prune, but next year watch out, you’ll be up to your chin in berries.” Then, noticing the apple, plum and pear trees flowering at the far edge of the yard, he made a mental note to check their condition before he left.
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