You’re the One That I Haunt

by Terri Garey

  Crystal evidently felt it, too. No! No, not yet…

  My body responded to Crystal’s agitation; I began to shake, to tremble. I gritted my teeth, keeping my eyes closed, concentrating on the Light. It pulsed and glowed, drawing me in as it had the first time I’d seen it, many months ago.

  A sudden rush of energy swamped me—my body swayed in an effort to withstand it, and then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Do unto others, Nicki, as you would have them do unto you.”

  It was déjà vu all over again—the Light, the tunnel, the music of the cosmos ringing in my ears like the pure, perfect notes of a celestial choir. The indescribable feelings of love and comfort and knowing.

  And the Voice. The nameless, faceless Voice that knew and loved and comforted.

  I couldn’t feel my body—I wasn’t sure I had a body. All around me floated bright shapes, colors without form or substance. These beings radiated warmth and acceptance, and somehow I knew that the shifting kaleidoscope of colors was caused by their emotions—the blues of love and comfort, greens of hope and joy, red and orange for warmth.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the colors whispered, without words. “Be strong, and embrace who you are. There is purpose in everything, and in everything there is purpose.”

  “To those to whom much is given, much will be asked,” said the Voice. “Go back, and take comfort in knowing that all is as it should be.”

  Then I was floating, up and away from the brightness of the Light, watching it recede while my soul cried out in sorrow. Once again I’d been so close, yet I was still so far. The Light became a sparkle, then a pinprick, then disappeared altogether, leaving nothing but darkness.

  Oblivion beckoned, but was evidently not to be. My body felt heavy, burdensome. Slowly, I became aware of an unpleasant odor. Oblivion didn’t smell like cigarettes, did it?

  “Don’t die on me, girl,” a woman’s voice muttered. “I’ve got enough problems as it is.”

  I opened my eyes to see a face looming over me. Pudgy cheeks and dirty brown hair, drawn back in a messy bun.

  Tina Cowart. Crystal’s mother.

  “Wha—what happened?” I was lying on the floor, my head in Tina’s lap. It was an effort to sit up, but it was better than breathing in the stale fumes rising from Tina’s clothes.

  “You passed out,” she said, sighing in relief. The smell of cigarettes on her breath was worse than her clothes, and enough to push me to my feet. My knees were wobbly, so I grabbed the edge of a nearby counter and held on.

  “Do you need me to call somebody?” Tina asked. She struggled to her feet as well, grunting a little with the effort.

  I shook my head. “How long—” My throat was dry, so I swallowed hard before finishing. “How long was I out?”

  Tina shrugged. “Not long. Less than a minute, maybe.”

  A minute? I’d been to eternity and back that quickly? Time had no meaning where I’d been, I suppose.

  I took a deep breath, already feeling steadier. The last time this happened, I’d awakened in the hospital a day later, stiff and sore. I’d had to take antibiotics for two weeks to clear up the lingering infection that was the source of my heart failure. This time it was different—my heart was pumping away just fine, if a little too fast, and I’d only blacked out, not died.

  I think.

  Had it been a dream? A hallucination?

  “You okay?” Tina’s question brought me back to reality.

  I nodded, wishing she’d go away. “I’m okay.”

  “Was that my daughter?” Tina showed no inclination to leave just yet. “Was Crystal…you know…speaking through you before you passed out?”

  Oh, man. Crystal the Mean Meth-head. I turned my head toward the front window, where Sammy had been standing, moments before this ugly little episode had begun, but saw nothing but the usual foot traffic ambling by. The bright red banners across the street at Divinyls flapped in the breeze, mocking me with their cheerful phrases of welcome! and grand opening.

  “I’m not feeling too well,” I mumbled, not anxious to answer questions. “I’m gonna go lie down, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to lock up the store now.”

  Tina eyed me, obviously debating whether to push harder or back off. “Tell Crystal I love her,” she said, evidently making up her mind as to the answer to her own question. “I know she never meant them mean things she said.” She turned toward the door, hesitating. “And tell her I’m sorry.” A tired, defeated look crept into her eyes. Her rounded shoulders seemed to be set in a permanent slump. “She’ll know what for.”

  I would’ve felt sorry for Tina Cowart if I hadn’t been so busy feeling sorry for myself. As it was, I was barely able to keep from shoving her bodily out the door. When she turned and left, I nearly sagged to my knees in relief, grateful for the counter’s support.

  The tinkle of the shop bell drew Evan from the back. His look went from apprehensive to concerned the moment he saw me. “Nicki? Are you okay?”

  His arm was around my shoulder in moments, familiar and comforting, and I leaned into him, letting my head rest against his shirt.

  “No,” I said, sounding like a total wimp. “And I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

  The light from my lava lamp bathed the top of my dresser, soothing and soft as the lava itself. I watched the gooey shapes rise and fall, tumbling over themselves in their haste to rejoin the gunk at the bottom.

  “I’m worried about you,” Joe said. We were in bed, his bare chest beneath my cheek. “That’s twice now she’s possessed you.”

  I’d told Joe about my visit from Crystal and Tina Cowart, but I hadn’t told him about blacking out, because I knew he’d make me go in for testing and scans and X-rays, things I didn’t need. If there was anything I’d learned from my two trips to the Light, it was that when your number was up, it was up. And when it wasn’t—bam—back to the real world you’d go.

  “Why is she so angry? She has to know I didn’t kill her.” There was absolute certainty in his voice. “At some level, she knew what she was doing to herself was dangerous. She didn’t become that emaciated overnight—surely some doctor somewhere had given her a warning before now.”

  “She said something about all doctors being stupid,” I told him. “I don’t think she took warnings very well.”

  He sighed beneath my palm.

  “She was a messed-up person, who died angry at the world, which made her a beacon to Sammy. He’s giving her anger an outlet, keeping her alive in a way.” I was musing aloud. “But ultimately he’ll take her soul.”

  “Bastard,” Joe muttered.

  I raised a finger to his lips, not wanting to tempt fate by talking about Sammy any longer, particularly while we were in bed.

  “It’s sad,” I murmured. “I feel sorry for her.”

  It was sad. As creepy as she was, Crystal was dead, and she’d apparently never been happy.

  Never would be happy.

  She’d made a deal with the Devil, and in the end, the Devil always gets his due.

  “Maybe it’s time to call in a priest,” Joe said.

  I raised my head to look at him. “I’m not Catholic.”

  He smoothed the hair away from my face as he answered. “Neither am I, but I don’t think it matters.”

  I put my head back down, cheek warm against his skin. “I don’t know. Seems kind of hypocritical to ask for help from the church when I haven’t been inside one for years.” Except for Granny Julep’s funeral. But Trinity Baptist Church was Southern Baptist to the core, and I doubted the old black preacher who’d given Granny’s eulogy would be interested in crazy talk about demons from a girl he’d never met. Particularly a girl with pink streaks in her hair and a wild story about seeing dead people.

  “We have to do something,” Joe murmured. His hand stroked my arm, soothing and slow. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Nicki.”

  Unexpected tears prickled, but I blink
ed them away. I kissed the warm skin closest to my lips—his chest, just below the right nipple. “It’s going to be okay,” I said, hoping like hell that it was true. “I’m practicing my meditation techniques, just like Bijou told me. As long as I’m strong, I can kick Crystal out when she tries to take over. If I get strong enough, I might be able to keep her from getting in there to begin with.”

  “For how long?” Joe asked, effectively shutting down my argument. “How long can you keep that up, Nick?” His hand stopped its stroking, squeezing my arm gently instead. “You’ve got a weak heart valve, remember? I’m worried about the strain, both emotional and physical, that this puts on your body.”

  I bit my lip, knowing exactly how close to the mark he was. Another reason not to tell him I’d blacked out. I was fine now, just fine, and I wouldn’t have been sent back from the other side a second time without a reason. “Don’t be afraid,” the colors had said. “There is purpose in everything, and in everything there is purpose.” My number was obviously not up yet, but I didn’t want to argue about it.

  Not at the moment.

  I kissed him again, right where the fine hair surrounding his nipple started to curl. His chest was mostly hairless, except for a few light swirls I found both endearing and sexy. “I’ll be careful,” I murmured, stroking the firm skin beneath my fingers. “Don’t worry.”

  Joe’s heavy sigh was laced with frustration, and I couldn’t have that. We’d just spent forty-five glorious minutes getting rid of frustration.

  I let my hand travel down the faint trail of hair that led to his belly button, then flattened it over his already flat stomach. Closing my eyes, I slid it even lower, knowing I’d reached my goal when the hair turned from silky to coarse, from a light dusting to a prickly nest of curls.

  Joe stirred against my hand, and I cupped his balls with my palm, hefting their weight. I loved how they felt—tender little sacs of vulnerability, so readily filled with man juice.

  I was all set to slide down and pay them some attention when Joe took my wrist, sliding my hand over his hardness instead. It surged beneath my palm, and sent a jolt of heat into my belly. All this talk of worry when we could be doing something else. I stroked him, closing my eyes at the sensation of silken skin over hard flesh, velvety and alive beneath my fingertips.

  He shifted, rolling me onto my back. His heat was against my thigh and belly now, still hardening. He pressed it against me, deliberately, letting me feel how it surged and thickened.

  “Mmmm.” I moved my hips, pressing even closer. “You don’t seem to be worried about the effect this will have on my heart.”

  “No,” he muttered, brushing heated lips against my neck, just below my ear. “I’m only worried about the effect it has on mine.”

  And then his hand was on my breast, and his lips were on my throat, and rational thought disappeared.

  “This is mine,” his body was saying, and my body was responding, not even trying to deny it.

  I slipped one hand into his dark hair, and slid the other around his back, freeing my arms so he could do whatever he wanted. And then I kissed him with all the love in my heart as, with no further preliminaries, he drove himself home.

  Still damp from our earlier lovemaking, I gasped, clutching his shoulders.

  “You’re mine,” Joe confirmed my hazy, pleasure-drenched thoughts, dragging his lips across my cheek and burying his face in my neck. “Mine,” he repeated, driving his point home with a well-timed thrust. “He can’t have you.”

  My dazed eyes flew open, but Joe began a steady rhythm that left me breathless. I couldn’t speak, and didn’t want to anyway. Words seemed so insubstantial, so pale next to the sensations I was experiencing.

  “I want you to remember this,” Joe whispered, sliding in and out as I clung to him, not caring if my nails hurt. “I want you to remember what you’re fighting for.” A slow, deep thrust drew a groan from both of us, then Joe ceased to move at all, holding himself motionless deep within me. He threw back his head, throat muscles working. It was primal, overwhelmingly so. His arms felt like steel bands, shoulders like stone. “What we’re fighting for.” His breathing was ragged, and so was mine. All I could think of was how he felt, right this moment, muscles bunched beneath my fingers, hips pinning me to the bed.

  “This is good,” he said, pulling out just the teensiest bit before sliding back in. “What we have is good,” he gritted, eyes closed, “and I want you to think about it when you need to be strong.”

  All I could do was moan, overwhelmed by intensity. He didn’t expect an answer—what he really wanted was my surrender, and I gave it to him.

  He felt it, and ground his hips against mine, circular motions that rasped against my most sensitive spot, an almost unbearable friction that I never wanted to end.

  He pushed harder, burying himself even deeper as I peaked, gasping, losing myself in the feel of this man, this moment.

  “What we have is good, Nicki,” he whispered in my ear, holding himself deep within my body as I throbbed, fireworks exploding behind closed eyelids. “Don’t forget what we have.”

  CHAPTER 10

  How the heck was I supposed to clear my mind this morning if I couldn’t forget the night before?

  Morning sun streamed across the hardwood floors of my dining room. I was practicing meditation again, just like I’d promised, but all I could think about was Joe.

  Maybe I really could trust a guy to stand by me forever, no matter what.

  Commitment had always been a scary thought, but now it was scarier than ever because I had so much to lose.

  I stared at my hands, loose in my lap. My mother’s emerald ring on the right, the antique silver and marcasite ring Joe’d given me on the left. He’d given it to me on Halloween night—“for the prettiest ghoul I know”—he’d said, sealing his fate.

  I smiled a little, remembering. Not that we were engaged or anything, but yes, his fate was sealed, because he’d made me fall in love with him. Which meant I could get my heart broken in a variety of excruciatingly painful, possibly agonizing, and—now that Sammy was back—twistedly brilliant ways.

  But I wasn’t going to try to do anything stupid to drive him away to keep him out of danger, like I might have done earlier in our relationship.

  He knew what he was in for.

  Didn’t he?

  The meditation thing was a lot harder than it seemed. Bijou told me she liked to meditate in her library, in a wing chair by the fireplace. Flames were a good thing to look at while you cleared your head, she’d said.

  I didn’t have a fireplace, so I’d gone for the stereotypical cross-legged position on a pillow on the floor. Mooning over Joe wasn’t helping. I needed to concentrate, so I did my best to remember everything she’d told me.

  Keep your head, neck, and back straight but not stiff.

  Check.

  Put aside all thoughts of the past and the future. Stay in the present.

  There were dust bunnies under the dining-room table.

  Focus on your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

  Had I brushed my teeth this morning?

  In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  The oil light had come on in my car yesterday. I needed to make an appointment to get it serviced.

  In, out.

  Who breathed like this anyway? Breathing was not something I normally had to think about.

  Use your breathing as an anchor when your thoughts overwhelm you. Focus on your body, the rise and fall of your chest, the air as it fills your lungs, then empties.

  Good thing I’d never been a smoker. I’d seen pictures of what happened to a smoker’s lungs—very gross.

  A knock on the front door made me jump, destroying my feeble attempts at concentration. But I didn’t get up, just called from my pillow on the floor, “Who is it?”

  That door had two dead bolts on it—dead bolts I knew were locked.

  No answer, which made me n
ervous.

  “Who is it?” I called again.

  Out in the street, a car door slammed. The faint sound of an engine, then nothing.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms. Apparently, whoever had knocked on my door was gone, so I should have felt safe, but I didn’t. Cautiously, I rose and padded toward the door, barefoot in my T-shirt and pajama bottoms. I pressed my eye to the peephole, seeing nothing but my empty front porch.

  Not about to open the door yet, I moved to the living-room window, peering through the curtains. The porch was empty except for my potted plants, some of them in dire need of water.

  My dad’s old rocker was in its customary place by the railing, and in it sat a small white basket with a jaunty pink bow on the handle. It looked like an Easter basket, but Easter was nearly a month past.

  A gift basket. From whom?

  I peered through the window a couple of seconds longer just to make sure there was no one lurking on the sidewalk before I opened the door and went out to retrieve it.

  The basket was filled with fresh greenery. It smelled great, very herbal. One of the bundles had yellow flowers. An assortment of small bottles, hand-labeled, and rolled scraps of paper, each tied with pink ribbon. A note addressed to me lay on top.

  It looked harmless enough, cheerful even. I took one last look around my empty front yard before taking the basket inside, wondering why the florist hadn’t waited for me to come to the door. But I made sure I engaged both dead bolts behind me before taking it over to the couch.

  “st. john’s wort,” read the label on the first bottle. There were six or eight of them, filled with different-colored powders in shades of yellow, green and gray. “ashes of alfalfa. essence of rue.” Homemade labels, in feminine handwriting. Hardly your typical set of spices, and they didn’t look or sound like bath salts, either. I opened the note.

  “Ms. Styx,” (it said, in the same handwriting that was on the bottles) “please accept these in the spirit they are offered. I think you may need them.”

  That was it. No signature. fennel seeds, angelica, dried snapdragon. I picked up one of the little scrolls and slipped off the ribbon. ~Spell To Find Something That’s Lost~, it said at the top, and I frowned, disappointed. “Great,” I muttered, “I’m getting gift baskets from the loonies now.”