A Fate Unknown
A Paranormal RH Novel
Sinclair Kelly
Copyright © 2020 by Sinclair Kelly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover: Moonstruck Cover Design and Photography
Editing: Michelle Motyczka
Formatting: Inked Imagination Author Services
Dedication
To my husband, for all your love and support. I promise to add ‘throbbing-cock’ into the next book just for you, babe. Yes, I’ll even add that incorrect hyphen, grammar be damned.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
A Personal Note from Sinclair:
About the Author
If The Broom Fits - Chapter 1
What. In. The. Ever-loving. Fuck.
I must’ve had one helluva time last night if the pounding in my head is any indication. My entire body aches like I went one too many rounds with a boxer - and lost. Taking stock of every ache and pain, I’m startled to realize everything feels...heightened. More intense somehow. It’s like all of my senses are misfiring, making every breath, every throb and sting, every small movement send tiny pulses of electricity zinging across my body. That can’t be good, can it?
I try to swallow, but it’s a struggle. My mouth is dry and gritty and tastes like ass. Sweaty, dirty ass. Not that I’ve ever licked dirty ass. Though I wouldn’t be opposed to licking a curvy, clean ass. The image of an alluring heart-shaped mole on a nicely sculpted ass cheek pops into my head.
Wait, what? That’s it. I’m never drinking again. Ever.
Bringing my arm up, I run my hand down my face, and even my skin feels hypersensitive. Brushing my fingers over my eyelid, it’s like I can feel every ridge and groove and detail of my fingertip. I can suddenly distinguish each individual blade of grass as it tickles the back of my neck. A wetness pools around my feet, along with the distinct grittiness of sand and the coolness of damp pebbles.
Where in the hell did I pass out?
My hands drop to tangle in the long grass beside me, and I use that simple touch to ground myself before opening my eyes, concerned about what sort of shit I might have gotten into.
As everything slowly begins to come into focus, my gaze locks on the stars twinkling in the clear night sky. Each one seems brighter than it should, closer and clearer. I look to my left, and the lights on the bridge above me are almost blinding in their intensity. Quickly shutting my eyes again, I take a deep breath to calm myself. It could be worse, right? I could be staring at a set of gleaming silver gates nestled in soft, fluffy whiteness, just beyond which are isles of clouds with a river of light flowing between them. Or a land full of screams, where every surface is made from black rock and the only light is from the lava that oozes upwards with a reddish glow from the ground to the ceiling high above.
Ok, that is oddly specific. What in the actual hell?
Opening my eyes again, I scan my surroundings. The roaring rapids I hear are actually just a wide, slowly flowing creek, its water gently trickling over the rocks at the shore...and my feet, apparently. There’s an owl hooting and car horns blaring somewhere off in the distance, but they all sound like they’re right next to me.
I release another breath and instantly regret it. My mouth smells like ass too. Other scents begin to filter in. The smell of earth - dirt and grass and flowers. Bluebonnets, maybe? How the hell I know that, I have no idea, but it’s so strong I hold my breath to avoid the overwhelming assault of odors.
Deciding I need to figure this shit out, I sit up. My head pounds, and I reluctantly take a few more deep breaths to get the world to stop tilting on its axis. At least I’m wearing clothes - a blue, button-down shirt that’s shockingly unrumpled despite my apparent fun last night, a pair of black trousers with the hems slightly damp from the water at my feet, and tan suspenders.
Where are my shoes and socks?
Nothing around me looks familiar, but I feel like I’ve been here before. Each side of the creek is heavily lined with trees. The grass slowly giving way to rocky banks edging the water. Sitting next to a large pedestrian bridge, I’m flooded with this feeling of peace and love. Which doesn’t make one damn bit of sense.
“Where the fuck am I?” I ask the night, my voice hoarse like it hasn’t been used in years. Unsurprisingly, I get no response.
Then I’m struck with another thought. Who the hell am I?
My heart starts to pound, panic rising.
“Knox. That’s my name. I’m Knox…” I trail off, coming up blank. I don’t know my last name.
As I attempt to keep the ensuing dread at bay, I sift through my memories only to realize I have none. Nothing. I don’t know how old I am, where I came from, or what happened to me.
Bringing my hand up, I slowly rub the center of my chest. There’s a pounding there that I thought was my heart’s erratic beating thanks to the panic attack I’m somehow managing to stave off, but it’s more than that. I flatten my hand, feeling the thump thump of my heartbeat, but somewhere deeper there’s a tug, this invisible pull telling me I need to get up. I need to go...somewhere.
I should probably be worried about finding food, and maybe some shoes, but the tug is growing in intensity the longer I sit here. Those heightened senses I was experiencing seem to be lessening somewhat, the power pooling somewhere inside me instead. Gathering strength and morphing into a powerful draw that is insisting I follow it. But where? And why?
Standing up slowly, the world spins for only a second before I’m steady enough to turn around. I stumble up the embankment, through the trees, over rocks and roots, until I’m stepping out onto a sidewalk next to an empty street. I glance left and see nothing but more trees and a dark road leading to God only knows where. To my right, I see a well-lit area a few blocks down along with more traffic, both people and cars, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with feelings. Happiness, excitement, jealousy, sadness. So many emotions slam into me it’s almost crippling. I stagger slightly and look down to find my palm resting on my chest again, the tug there starting to physically ache. I should head toward the people, someone who could help me, but the tether linking me to some mysterious pull is adamant that I go left, into the uncertainty that lies down that desolate road.
I glance right again, my belly rumbling and feet throbbing after walking through rough rocks and sticks. A thought strikes, and I quickly check my pockets but find no wallet or identification. I have no idea who I am or where I’ll go, and I’ve got no money to get me there.
Deciding to listen to my stomach rather than some weird feeling I don’t know if I can trust, I head toward the sounds of life. As I approach the busy street up ahead, I slo
w my pace and pause in the shadow of the nearest tree, suddenly realizing something is seriously wrong here. There’s a large crowd on the corner and music filtering out the door which is open to allow the long line of people inside.
Women dressed in short dresses and thigh-high, heeled boots laugh and talk while waiting outside. The men are in pants that flare out widely at the bottom and tight button-down shirts which are unbuttoned down to their chests. Their hair is as long as the women’s, and they run their fingers through it while they stand by, smoking cigarettes and scanning the growing line. But why is everyone surrounded by this hazy fog? Everyone is encased in colors, muted pinks and purples and yellows, shades of blue, and hints of red. It’s like someone placed a rainbow over the crowd, and they’re all swimming in it, causing the colors to swirl and mix.
Those feelings I’ve been experiencing have only grown stronger with every step I take toward the group in front of me. Throw in some frustration and anger, desire and despair, and it’s too much for my fragile mind right now. I can feel it all, and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to shut it off. I grab my head with both hands, trying to get it all to stop, but it simply grows stronger with each person that walks up to get in line.
Risking another look at the crowd of people then down at my own outfit that seems drastically out of place, I know with a curious certainty that I don’t belong here. I belong...somewhere else. Somewhen else.
I glance behind me again, down the quiet darkness of the road, and my feet slowly turn me around, directing me back the way I had come. An almost involuntary action that I don’t fight. Because at this point, I have nothing left to lose. I can only hope that whatever I find is worth the struggles I sense are waiting for me.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself as my feet start moving. What I’ll find down this road is unclear. I only know I’m heading toward some mysterious unknown...fate.
My life, or lack-thereof, is a total shit-show at the moment. I am neither here nor there. Stuck somewhere in between life and death. I ramble around this monstrosity of a house with its beautiful wood floors, winding staircase, antique fixtures, and covered furnishings with no real reason for being. Nothing about this place seems familiar, yet here I am. I can’t leave the property. Trust me, I’ve tried. I wander day in and day out because – let’s face it – ghost girls don’t exactly sleep, hold jobs, or have active social lives. I’m assuming I’m a ghost because...what else could I possibly be?
Walk through walls? Check. Slam random doors? Check. Make lights and other electronics go bat-shit crazy, scaring the crap out of unsuspecting people? Check and check.
I guess I’m just your average, everyday poltergeist. I can manipulate my environment but little else. No one can see me or hear me. I can’t touch anyone either, much to my very real disappointment. It gets lonely being a ghost girl.
My penchant for putting on a show - aka my boredom - has made this place a revolving door for the paranormal community. The Most Haunted Home in the Midwest. Yup. That’s right. I turned this otherwise normal home in the middle of Nowhereville, Illinois, into a regular circus sideshow. It’s been on the market since the day I appeared, and my performances have scared off every potential buyer or renter that has stepped through those double front doors, with their gorgeous, antique iron scrollwork and frosted glass.
What can I say? I’m a badass. Albeit one that doesn’t seem to know much about who she is, where she came from, or what she did that could have resulted in her current predicament.
So what do I know? I know that my name is Fate. Ironic, right? How I know that, I can’t be sure. Just like I can’t be sure how I know that there are three things I miss more than life itself. Yes, I mean that quite literally.
First – coffee. Just the sight of it alone practically sends me into an immediate orgasm these days - if ghost girls could have orgasms, that is. Every time a real estate agent sets up for an open house with a pot of the steaming, yummy goodness, my mouth waters, figuratively, of course, because ghost girls do not drool.
Second – wine. Something tells me that wine and I used to have an ongoing love-hate relationship. I bet it was my kryptonite. Cheap, expensive, dry, sweet. I don’t even care. If I concentrate hard enough, I swear I can taste the bountiful flavor rolling around on my tongue. Again, immediate almost-orgasm.
Which leads me to the third – sex. I know, obvious, right? I’ll admit that there have been a few times throughout the years where thrill-seeking couples have broken in and gotten down and dirty right in the front living room or shagged it up in one of the upstairs bedrooms that still has a dusty ass bed…and…I may have stayed to watch with unabashed longing, wishing I could at least touch myself to take care of the ache that seems to be perpetually present.
What? There’s nothing wrong with a little voyeurism when your life is no longer yours to live. Instead, you live vicariously through those around you. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my time here, it’s that I must have been a very sexual being in my past life as every fiber of my phantom body aches for the touch of another.
Life – or rather death – just isn’t fair, dammit!
Pouting over all of the things I’ll never get to experience again is pointless, but what else do I have to do? Dramatically draping my wrist across my forehead, I sip from an imaginary wine glass with the other. Anything to give some depth to my little self-indulgent pity party. Just when I’m really getting into my spectral sobfest, the sound of approaching cars hits my ears. I roll my eyes, cross my arms over my chest like a stubborn toddler, and refuse to give in to my curiosity. Considering the randy locals prefer the dark when they want to sneak in and defile the property, it’s either a real estate agent bringing yet another client that will inevitably piss themselves when they get a taste of my renowned paranormal experience, or another group of those pesky ghost hunters that think they can get rid of me. I simply do not like to share what I perceive as my own personal space. I may be lonely, but I’m not stupid. The living do not like to co-exist with the dead, and ain’t nobody got time to deal with cleansings or exorcisms to rid the home of my presence. This place is mine, and it’s going to stay that way.
The slamming of car doors is my signal that it’s time to get off my ass and evaluate my next move. With a huff of annoyance, I lift my head from the covered arm of the chair I’m sprawled across and fling my legs to the ground. How my transparent self doesn’t sink right through the furniture or floors is a mystery, but one simply does not look a gift horse in the mouth. As I amble over to the nearest window, I try to remember the last time I felt a plush cushion sinking beneath my weight or the velvety softness of it beneath my fingertips, and I come up empty. Always empty.
Spotting the black convertible Mustang of my nemesis – the current agent who handles the listing for the property − I fake a gag with one finger down my throat. Immature? Maybe. Let’s blame it on my rusty social skills considering it’s been just me, myself, and I for way too damn long.
She steps out, her long blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Black stiletto heels add another four inches to her already tall figure. Her red dress is excessively tight over her slender body, while her fake boobs are almost popping out of the low-cut neckline.
Oh, I’m not judging. Just stating facts. Trust me when I say she’s not at all shy about the work she’s had done. I can’t even begin to count the number of phone conversations I’ve had to listen to where she gushed about how awesome they looked post-recovery and how she likes to fondle them herself.
Ugh. TMI, am I right?
She and her whole outfit are just a little too inappropriate to be considered professional, but that doesn’t matter to Agent Barbie. No, that is not her real name, and no, I've never really cared enough to figure out what it is. Why would I when she’ll be just another in a long line of fools that have attempted to sell this property - and failed.
I scan the driveway, trying to seek out the poor souls unlucky en
ough to stumble into my lair – insert evil villain laugh here - but my eyes snag on the logo-covered doors of the two black SUVs parked in the circular drive. The company name stands out in large, white lettering outlined with silver.
V.I.P.S. Valley Investigations & Paranormal Society.
“Oh my ghost! Really?” I groan aloud while also giving in to another eye roll because - ego, much?
These groups always fall into one of two categories. First, the fame whores who want to make a name for themselves at the Most Haunted Home in the Midwest, hoping to earn their own TV show. Like there aren’t already a million other YouTube and TikTok users out there looking for their fifteen minutes in the spotlight.
Then there’s the second group. The genuine researchers who are trying to discover answers to the unexplainable - whether that means proving the existence of the paranormal or debunking all the reported activity by chalking it up to swamp gas or drafty windows.
My guess is this group is of the former variety. I mean, V.I.P.S.? Really?
I could ignore them and let them think the rumors of paranormal activity are just that - rumors and highly exaggerated, leaving them disappointed and dejected. Or, I could give them the experience of a lifetime. It’s been a while since I’ve put on a good show, and this may be just the distraction I need to avoid tumbling even further into the depths of my despair.
Just add melodramatic to my long list of ghostly sins.
Movement below grabs my attention, and I watch as a man glances toward the window where I’m standing. My breath catches, and a sudden tingle tickles my belly with a strange sense of familiarity. It doesn’t make any sense, and unease begins to slither through me. He’s tall – well over six feet. His sandy blond hair brushes the collar of his shirt, with a stray piece falling in front of his face. A large, masculine hand comes up to run through the offending strands, pushing them out of the way, then drops to run over his scruffy blond facial hair. His bicep flexes under his tight black t-shirt bearing the company logo, and his low-slung jeans hug his long, lean legs. He has a sort of Thor thing going on, and my sex-deprived self just wants to get a peek at his - ahem - hammer.
A Fate Unknown: A PNR, Why Choose Novel (The Ghost Girl Series Book 1) Page 1
