The ghost of you lingers, p.1
The Ghost of You Lingers, page 1
The Ghost of You Lingers
Cat Washington
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© 2025 by Cat Washington. All rights reserved.
No generative artificial intelligence (AI) was used in the writing of this work.
No AI training. The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication to train AI technologies to generate text, including, without limitation, technologies capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
ISBN: 979-8-9932056-0-1 (ebook)
Cover design by Van Garcia
Edited by Carolina VonKampen
Content Warning
This story deals with difficult family relationships, depression, and suicide.
Please take care of yourself while reading. And if you want to talk to someone, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is available (in the United States). Live chat services are also available at 988lifeline.org.
Contents
The Ghost of You Lingers
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
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
I grabbed my battered suitcase from the stack of luggage that came off the ferry. It was covered in duct tape and, like me, had seen better days. As I extended the handle and walked toward the interior of the island to find my new cottage, a man took it from my hands.
“What the—”
“This you?” He held up a placard with the name “Veronica Cartwright” on it, then pointed at my bag.
When I bought it from a thrift shop, I’d put stickers in the shape of letters in different fonts on the front. It made my name look like a ransom note. No one alive would’ve paid a ransom for me, so it seemed funny at the time. Alone on an island nine hundred miles from home, it was less funny now. The letters spelled my chosen name, Gibson Cartwright.
“Close enough.” I hadn’t answered to Veronica for almost twenty years, but it was technically still my legal name. Whatever.
“This way.” He walked into the crowd of tourists, dragging my bag behind him, wheels scraping against uneven concrete. The porter must have been at least seventy-five, with a stoop and neat white hair. If he had been a young dude, I would have ripped my bag out of his hands and told him to fuck off. Instead, I followed him through the plaza. I could be an asshole but I wasn’t about to scream at a senior citizen.
Kids I recognized from the ferry ride to the island ran with reckless abandon toward an ice cream stand. A group of women I’d overheard gossiping about their plans to celebrate being divorced power-walked with equal glee to the first bar in sight. Some of them were cute, but without leather or tattoos, they weren’t exactly my type.
I pushed a strand of wet-noodle hair out of my eyes and silently cursed humidity in general. Then Michigan humidity in particular.
Downtown Mackinac Island was full of fudge shops, novelty gift stores, and more fudge shops. Flower boxes and bicycle racks lined the streets. Because cars weren’t allowed, people strolled down the middle of the street holding hands. A quaint little town you couldn’t easily leave—it gave me the creeps.
The porter turned onto a small road leading into the residential part of the island. I almost stepped in several piles of manure casually dropped by the gigantic horses that clop-clopped around the car-free island. Some were attached to carriages holding swooning couples, others ridden by giddy tourists. My black shirt was already soaked through with sweat.
I followed the older man down an even smaller road lined with densely crowded cedar trees and tall lilac bushes. The trees on my block back home in New York were friendly, but these loomed like nosy giants. The sound of happy vacationers faded, replaced by birdsong and the whispering wind. I shivered at the change, and a chill came over me despite the damp summer heat.
We turned down a private lane marked with a small wooden sign that said Abaddon Cottage. It cut through a dark mass of trees that opened to reveal my newly deceased great-aunt’s house. We’d never met, so I didn’t understand why her dying wish was to give me her house. I didn’t want the house. Cash would’ve been great, but just like everyone else in my family, she didn’t give a shit about what I wanted.
But Mackinac was full of rich fucks with rich-fuck real estate, so I was ready to cash in on the unexpected inheritance.
“Here, miss,” the porter said. “Good luck.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Give ya two days,” the man muttered as he turned toward the road.
“What?”
The porter turned back around. He raised bushy white eyebrows and nodded at the house. “Couldn’t pay me to live in there. Good luck, girl.”
***
Abaddon Cottage was enormous. I thought a “cottage” was supposed to be small and charming. Cute, even. This was large. Formidable, even.
The front yard was a tangled mess of vines that choked out any charm the grounds may have had. I unclipped the key ring from the carabiner on my belt loop and approached the house. It was a dilapidated, three-story wood-and-brick-faced miniature mansion with a wraparound porch. On it sat a pair of Adirondack chairs that badly needed a coat of paint. The entire place needed a coat of paint. Or a time machine.
For half a second, I thought I saw someone with long hair standing in the third-floor bedroom. But when I blinked and looked again, it was just the outline of an old lamp.
“Okay, Aunt Agatha,” I said, unlocking the door. She had been my mother’s aunt, not mine. A simple blood relationship that was anything but simple, seeing as both were dead and neither had wanted anything to do with me while they were alive. “Let’s get this over with.”
My boss Babs didn’t give a shit if I worked from the office or Timbuktu as long as I turned in assignments on time. But the longer I remained, the more likely it was that another shitstain guitar player would steal my spot in the band whose career I’d helped launch. They thought of me as nothing but a sideman. But with their regular guitarist in jail, the lead singer had promised me the gig, full time. And she was hot, but all we’d ever done was fool around, so I wanted a shot at making her my full-time gig, too.
Pushing away thoughts of Brooke, I entered the house. I tried the boot scraper mounted next to the door, then pulled off my manure-encrusted shoes.
The tile entryway led to a giant curved staircase. Off to one side was a grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging lethargically. A huge chandelier hung in front of the staircase. Beyond the entryway, cream-colored wallpaper with a swirly texture covered the walls, accompanied by a warm wooden trim. Dust bunnies gathered in the crevices. Agatha’s furnishings had been left as part of the estate transfer, and the caretaker had covered them in white sheets, leaving the impression of a ghostly gathering.
I pulled off one of the sheets, then regretted it when I uncovered a hideous pink couch.
I left my bag next to the staircase and ran a finger over the baluster. My fingertip came away dark with grime, so I wiped it on my pants. I whistled, then shivered at how the house swallowed the sound.
On the other side of the staircase was an alcove with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It even had one of those rolling ladders. I ran my hands over the spines, expecting dust, but my hand came away clean.
The kitchen and bathroom made up the rest of the first floor. A basic wooden kitchen table was nestled against the wall next to the door leading to the backyard. The table was clean and empty. In the bathroom, I flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. The shower was basic, tiled in grimy white squares. I tried not to think of the stabbing scene from Psycho, but it appeared in my head anyway.
Before heading upstairs, I flipped a switch labeled “chand.” The lights in the chandelier came to life, twinkling and sending warm shards of light around the hallway. Except one bulb on the bottom, which stubbornly remained dark like a tooth punched out of a smiling face.
Upstairs were two bedrooms, one with mint-green wallpaper and one with a more tasteful rose pattern. Both were old-fashioned, but in a cozy way. I didn’t hate it nearly as much as I should. In spite of myself, I saw potential. Someone could stay here. Someone who wanted to escape the real world. Someone who wanted to live in a creaky Victorian-era house on an island they couldn’t easily leave. Someone who wasn’t me.
The third floor consisted entirely of the master suite. It had a detached wardrobe and a bathroom with an old claw-foot tub and decently clea n tile. None of it was my style, but I could live with it until I found a buyer.
A chime from the downstairs grandfather clock jump-started my heart. I told it to calm the fuck down.
Looking back at the empty room, this time I saw sadness. The four-poster bed stood stalwart against the march of time, covered by a quilt made by hand long ago. I purposely distanced myself from my family, including whoever made that quilt. Although on purpose, my disconnection from them now made me feel isolated and small.
A loud scream ripped through the silence of the room.
It was high-pitched, almost a whistle. My shoulders rose, and my entire body tensed with fear.
“What the—”
After a moment of frozen indecision, I skipped down the stairs two at a time. Halfway to the landing, I stopped, realizing what the sound was.
A tea kettle?
I mentally replayed my walkthrough of the kitchen, trying to remember a tea kettle. I couldn’t remember seeing one, but it didn’t matter, because there was no one else in the house. I unlocked the door. I was the only person with keys.
The sound abated. I strained my ears and, sure enough, heard the sound of water being poured into a mug. Someone else was in the house.
I counted to ten, breathing deeply, then shouted, “Whoever you are, you’re trespassing on private property!”
Racing down the stairs, I skidded around the base of the staircase and thundered into the kitchen like a bat headed into hell. I stopped at the entrance with a hand against the old refrigerator, breathing heavily.
The kitchen was empty.
But something caught my eye and held it, anchoring me in place.
The empty table wasn’t empty anymore. A mug, white porcelain with angel wings, sat off to one side. Next to it was an open book with a ribbon for a bookmark. A chair had been pulled out as if someone had been sitting there, curling their hands around the mug to feel its warmth. Wisps of steam rose from hot, dark liquid within.
As I fixated on the objects on the table, I heard the creaking of door hinges that badly needed grease. The door between the kitchen and backyard swung open, then shut again. There weren’t any curtains on the window, so I could clearly see the empty deck.
I slowly backed away.
Then I picked up my shoes and ran out of the house, slamming the door, not bothering to lock it.
Shit.
The house was haunted.
Chapter 2
The divorced ferry women were seated at the Purple Stallion when I arrived. Based on their rosy cheeks and empty glasses, they were several drinks ahead of me. I sat at the bar and watched purple-clad servers carrying trays of margaritas to sunburned tourists in polo shirts.
I ordered a beer from the bartender, a kid in his twenties who mixed throwback styles by sporting both a mullet and a fanny pack. While he poured, I convinced myself the door and ghost mug were simply my imagination at work. A breeze opened the door. I hadn’t looked closely enough to actually see steam coming from the mug. Someone forgot to put a cup away while they were dealing with Agatha’s possessions. No one had been in the house making tea. I was tired.
And, yeah, the house was spooky, so my mind was playing tricks. Stress, not Casper.
I frowned. My shaky mental health wasn’t the only explanation. Someone might have broken into the house. Mackinac marketed itself as a haven away from crime-ridden big cities, but it was also a tourist trap. The cottage had been empty while Agatha was in hospice. Someone might have noticed and made a move, not knowing the new owner was about to arrive.
Glancing around, I scanned the restaurant for locals who might know about recent home invasions. A man who looked like a pile of rags come to life sat on the other side of the bar. His facial hair couldn’t be called a beard but was more than stubble. He looked like he lived in that bar seat and knew the island. But he also looked like he might start ranting about mermaids if given the chance, so I looked away.
I ordered a veggie burger. When I set aside my menu, a woman with bright orange hair sat next to me.
“You look just like Agatha, you know.” She stared at me with a smile that was kind, if a little too friendly for my liking. “How’s the house treating you?”
“Do I know you?”
She smiled again, crinkling the heavy makeup around her eyes. “News travels fast.”
I nodded, unsure what to do or say. The bartender delivered my food, so I nibbled on a french fry.
“I’m Miranda.” She extended a hand, and I took it. She was wearing large rings on three of her fingers. They matched her chunky necklace, which sat atop a bright green dress. Her entire outfit was loud and her smile was genuine, but it also held something back. Miranda seemed like a woman who was delighted by the secrets she kept.
“Gibson.”
Her penciled eyebrows raised. She didn’t remark on my unusual name. Someone younger might’ve asked for my pronouns, to which I would’ve answered, “whatever, she is fine, I don’t give a fuck,” but the woman just smiled.
“Have you heard of any houses broken into recently around here?”
“Goodness, no.” She handed me a card. “You’ll find me off Verbena Way. Your dear auntie and I got up to all sorts of trouble.” She batted extremely thick fake eyelashes.
Since I didn’t know my great-aunt Agatha existed until recently, I had no idea what to make of that. My mother had been estranged from her family due to religious differences, and when I became old enough to, I estranged myself from her. Religion was only one of the many differences between us.
I glanced at the card. Miranda’s title was listed as “Spiritual Medium. Tarot Readings by Request.” Inwardly, I groaned. There was no way I’d visit a medium—haunted house or no.
She concentrated, then said, “Let me guess. . . Capricorn?”
I opened my mouth to deflect, but she was right.
A man appeared at her elbow. “Miranda! Ms. Cartwright doesn’t care about that crap.” He was an imposing presence, built like a fridge and smiling like he owned the place. “Seymour Anderson, Mackinac High-End Homes. You and me should chat about that land.”
Miranda clicked her tongue. “How do you know Gibson is interested in selling?”
“Of course she is!” Seymour guffawed, throwing his head back and putting his hands on his hips. He was wearing a pristine athleisure tracksuit in a shade of light blue. Odd choice for such a macho guy. “This young lady knows what a goldmine that dump could be. If it gets in the right hands, that is.”
My jaw automatically clenched at being called a “young lady.” I had always hated being called a lady, because it was usually meant as an insult. Well into my thirties, the “young” part was definitely insincere. But I wanted insight into the island’s real estate, and here it was, in the form of a douchebag in sky-blue sweats.
He handed me a card. “Call me. You will not regret it.”
“Like Mrs. Montclair didn’t regret letting her home go?” Miranda’s voice was as sweet as honey, but the look in her eyes was sharp.
“That was different—”
A voice yelled, “Leave ’er alone!” Pile-of-rags man heaved off his stool and left a stack of bills on the bar. “Disgraces, both of you. The cottage is hers.”
He met my gaze and nodded, then shuffled out of the restaurant, almost knocking into a family buying souvenir T-shirts in the attached gift shop. Miranda and Seymour trailed after him, leaving me sitting at the bar with a cold burger and the feeling that dealing with this house would be more of a hassle than I anticipated. I wanted the money enough to deal with colorful local characters but that didn’t mean I was eager to be friendly about it.
***
It was windy on my walk back to Abaddon Cottage. I had a jacket in my suitcase, but I had rushed out of the house convinced it was haunted, so I hadn’t exactly gotten a chance to unpack. I crossed my arms and rubbed them to keep warm. The hot dog and ice cream stands at Windermere Point were closed, but the rest of downtown came alive as night fell. Music and happy people drifted out of the restaurants and hotels. I wandered among the crowds, feeling totally alone.
A group of kids rushed by on bicycles, almost knocking me over. Their leader, a curly-haired kid of about ten or so, called a quick “sorry!” over his shoulder. I scowled at the kids, but they were gone before I could yell at them.
