Ghostridden, p.1
Ghostridden, page 1
Contents
About Ghostridden
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
About Five Dead Herrings
About Stumptown Spirits
A Message from E.J.
Also by E.J. Russell
About the Author
Acknowledgements
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
Ghostridden
Copyright © 2024 by E.J. Russell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the authors, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com
Cover model: Nicholas Katen, photographed by Sam San Román
Edited by Meg DesCamp
ISBN: 978-1-947033-98-6
First edition
August 2024
Contact information:
ejr@ejrussell.com
When ghostwriter Maz Amani inherits a house from an uncle he’s never heard of, he offers heartfelt thanks to the universe, packs up his car, his cat, and his skepticism about mysterious uncles leaving all their worldly goods to unknown nephews, and high-tails it to a small town halfway to the Oregon coast.
Anything would be better than week after week of couch surfing his way around Portland. Even if the alleged house is a rundown shack ridden with termites, spiders, and—shudder—rats, he’ll deal. Because hey, he owns a house!
And when his legacy turns out to be a pristine Queen Anne beauty with nary a termite, spider, or rat in sight, he’s ready to stand the universe unlimited vodka shots.
Except not so fast.
Because instead, his house is ridden with something a little more on-brand for a place called Ghost…
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“Holy crap, Gil. I never expected this.”
Gilgamesh, predictably, didn’t answer, not even a meow or the weird yodeling yowl he’d been favoring me with for most of the three-hour-plus drive from Portland. Maybe he was just happy the car had stopped moving. For that matter, so was I. But seriously?
“There’s got to be some mistake.”
I wrestled the cranky door of my rattletrap Civic open and clambered out onto the street to gawk. When the probate lawyer with the awesome double-barreled name of Taryn Pasternak-McHale had called to tell me I’d inherited a house from my Uncle Oren, my first response had been, “Uncle who?”
I’d had no idea I even had an Uncle Oren, and technically, I still didn’t, him being dead and all. But even when he was alive, the relationship had been distant at best: He was apparently my mother’s second cousin once removed, and I defy anybody who’s not a total genealogy geek to figure that one out. But Taryn-with-the-great-name had assured me that I was right there in the will.
“We’ve had a terrible time finding you,” she’d said, her voice over the phone line noticeably irritable. “It took us two months. We had to hire a private detective.”
I winced. “Sorry.” Yeah, couch surfing didn’t exactly give you a fixed address to use for mail forwarding, and I’d scaled back my online presence after I’d gotten trolled multiple times thanks to my vindictive ex. Speaking of whom… “Did you try leaving a message with Greg Findler? He’s still at my last permanent address.”
“Several times.” She cleared her throat. “He, ah, told us you were dead.”
“What?”
“To be fair, he amended the statement to say you were dead to him, but he was less than helpful.”
“I can believe that,” I muttered. “So how did you find me?”
“You were listed as the ‘with’ author on Dale Usher’s memoir. We tracked you through his publisher.”
“Ah.” Most of the time, ghostwriting didn’t get you a by-line or even a mention in the acknowledgements. Dale, a retired detective with a strong commitment to justice and fair play, had been an exception. In fact, he’d insisted on giving me credit, both on the cover and in his comments. “Good to know.”
Taryn rattled off a bunch of details. To be honest, I didn’t hear half of what she said because my head was still reeling from the double shock that I’d had a relative I hadn’t known about, and that he’d left me a freaking house, for Pete’s sake.
Okay, triple shock: that Greg was still pissed enough at me for refusing to ghostwrite his book that he wasn’t satisfied with trashing my professional rep online, but was refusing to pass on messages, even though I checked with him daily via text.
His response was always, “No messages, no mail, screw you.”
“The house is a bit remote,” Taryn warned. “In a small town between Eugene and Florence.”
Considering all my Portland bridges had been torched very merrily by Greg, I’d said, “Sounds perfect,” arranged for her to message the key and directions to me at the nearest UPS store, and hit the road immediately to the not-so-musical accompaniment of Gil’s very vocal disapprobation.
With nothing else to distract me on the drive—my phone died outside Eugene and the Civic’s radio hadn’t worked since 2013—I’d tried to imagine what kind of house my uncle had left me. I’d run the gamut from a two-room shack to a 50s ranch to a mossy log cabin with a crooked smoke pipe to a creepy Victorian that would give the Bates Motel a run for its money. I’d never come close to this.
My incomplete degrees in English lit, creative writing, and business didn’t qualify me as an architectural expert, but I knew Queen Anne when I saw it because I’d researched it for a ghostwriting gig for a historical romance author.
Uncle Oren’s house—my house—was a classic example, including the steep, asymmetrical roof, the cross gables, the polygonal tower at one side of the full-width front porch, and all the decorative goodies on shingles and woodwork and trim and just everywhere.
As for being dilapidated, creepy, or even in need of a new coat of paint? Nope, nope, and nope. It was absolutely pristine. Even the round stained glass window in the third floor gable gleamed in the April sunlight.
My embarrassing schoolkid squeal was masked by the usual screech of metal as I closed the Civic’s door. With my wide, manic grin, I probably resembled a deranged clown, but I couldn’t help it.
Besides, there was nobody to see. My house—my house!—was flanked at a considerable distance by two others, one a yellow rambling two-story farmhouse style, and the other a brown and green craftsman bungalow. We were the only houses on the quiet, one-block street; a park populated by enormous trees and surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence lay opposite.
I practically skipped around the car to grapple Gil’s carrier out of the passenger seat. “Come on, buddy. Let’s see what our new home is like.”
As anxious as I was to see if the inside matched the outside, I didn’t rush to the front door—I was too busy rubbernecking. I’d have thought that since Taryn hadn’t been able to reach me for two months—yeah, thanks for that, Greg—that the landscaping would have gotten a little ragged at least, but my front yard was as manicured as both my neighbors’. A huge maple stood halfway between the street and the house, its branches canopying a curved flagstone walk lined with nodding purple pansies. The path was bordered by smooth swaths of green lawn without a single invading dandelion in sight.
Maybe the neighbors had banded together to keep it looking nice so their own places didn’t lose curb appeal? Or maybe the upkeep had been included in Uncle Oren’s bequest, one of the details I’d missed as I’d tried not to pass out from shock over owning a freaking house.
I mounted the porch steps and set Gil’s carrier down on the wide, whitewashed planks of its deck. “It has a porch swing, Gil!” I may have squealed again, but can you blame me? An actual porch swing! I couldn’t believe my impossibly good luck.
I dug the key out of my rear jeans pocket. It had poked me in the butt all the way from P ortland, but I endured the discomfort because it reminded me I was heading to my house.
I gazed fondly at its funky keychain: the Scooby Gang, complete with psychedelic van. I counted it a point in Taryn’s favor, if she was leaning in to the town’s name: Ghost.
Yep, I was moving to Ghost, Oregon, and given my profession, the irony was not lost on me, especially since I hadn’t had a paying gig since Greg started his online flame campaign.
The dark wooden front door was rounded on the top, with a leaded half-moon light at eye level. I didn’t peek through, though, any more than I peered through the windows that fronted the porch, because I wanted my first step across the threshold to rival the final reveal in all those house-flipping DIY shows.
That I may watch. Or binge. A lot. Hey, it’s for research.
I poised the key over the lock. “Here goes, Gil.” But when I tried to insert it into the keyhole? No dice. I couldn’t even get the tip inside.
Okay, now this was more like my luck, not to mention my love life. I owned a house, but I couldn’t get inside. I narrowed my eyes at the gleaming brass lock collar. “Not very welcoming, house. We need to have a little chat.”
I crouched down to peer into the keyhole. Something was definitely jammed inside. It was stuffed full of something that looked like—
“You there! You on the porch! Back away. Now.”
I froze in my crouch, but lifted my arms slooowly to the side, keeping my hands in full view. I’d had enough experience getting pulled out of line for extra scanning at airports to know a guy who looked like me, with my obvious Middle Eastern features and shoulder-length mop of black hair, shouldn’t make any sudden moves around skittish people who may or may not be carrying weapons.
“I’m standing up now,” I called.
“Drop whatever you’ve got in your hand. I’ve got pepper spray and a Taser, and I’m not afraid to use either one of them.”
Well, at least he didn’t have a gun. Unless he was saving that for later.
“It’s only my keys.” But I dropped them anyway. “I’m turning around now.” Because, yeah, I’d rather not get tased in the back, and although the pepper spray might be an issue, no way was I not looking this person in the eye. So I turned slowly, edging sideways as I did to block Gil’s carrier.
The guy at the foot of the sidewalk was about my age—late twenties, maybe early thirties—and good-looking in a sleek, expensive way that I’d never manage on my best day. One of those haircuts brushed back smoothly on the top, that only worked if you had straight hair and not corkscrew curls like me. He was wearing jeans, but they were clearly much newer than my faded 501’s, his loafers were shiny, and his button-down had nary a wrinkle. The contrast to my battered Converse and sweaty PSU T-shirt couldn’t be greater.
With his phone in one hand and the other digging in the leather messenger bag slung across his shoulder, he was obviously taking me in too, eyes narrowed in his clean-shaven face. Also obviously, he wasn’t impressed.
“You have three minutes to vacate the premises before I call the police.”
I pasted on a smile. “It’s okay. I’m supposed to be here.”
“I doubt that seriously. The house belongs to—”
“Me.” I shrugged apologetically, hands still in the air. “The house belongs to me.”
His square jaw sagged. “You?”
“Afraid so.”
“But… But…” He took a step toward me. “What’s your name?”
“Maz. Mazin Amani.”
He blinked. “Armani?”
“Not Armani. Amani.” Given his trendy clothing, I guessed that the missing R would have made a difference to him. “I inherited this house from my Uncle Oren.” Well, second cousin once removed Oren, but even though I’d never known he existed, let alone met him, I wasn’t about to look a gift house in the mouth. Er, porch. “And you are?”
He blinked again. “Oren Buckley was your uncle? I had no idea…” He withdrew his hand—thankfully Taser and pepper-spray free—from his bag and tucked his phone in his pocket as he strode up the sidewalk toward me. “I’m so sorry. I’m Carson Clemenson. Avi’s cousin.”
It was my turn to blink. “Avi?”
“Avi Felder.” His eyebrows drew together. “Surely you knew about Avi.”
“Sorry.” I wiped my hands on my jeans. “I never even knew I had an Uncle Oren until the probate attorney called me.”
“Avi and Oren were…” He sighed. “Well, if Avi hadn’t died before the US passed marriage equality, I’m pretty sure they’d have been husbands. They were devoted to one another.” The guy’s eyes swam with unshed tears. He coughed out a half laugh. “Sorry. Avi and I were close. I still miss him.” He gazed up at the house. “We had some times in this place.”
At my feet, Gil made his opinion known with a snarly yowl. I winced.
“I’m sorry for your loss, but it’s been a long trip, and Gilgamesh really wants his dinner. So if you don’t mind?” I gestured toward the door.
“Oh. Of course.” He screwed his mouth to one side, which didn’t mar the perfect symmetry of his face as much as you’d think. “I’m afraid it could be a bit of a mess. Nobody’s been inside since Avi’s death.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Really?” Not even second cousin once removed Oren? I glanced around the perfectly maintained yard and the pristine paint and woodwork. Somebody must have cared for it. “It looks incredible.”
“Yes, out here.” He nodded toward the house next door. “The same person who handles the neighbor’s upkeep has been maintaining the exterior.”
“For over ten years?”
The attorney hadn’t mentioned any ongoing expenses attached to the estate. Surely, if someone had been doing this much work for a decade, there should have been mention of it. But then, she’d also told me that there were boxes of Uncle Oren’s effects in storage that would be shipped to me here. Maybe the records for the handyman’s payments were in them.
“It’s been a couple of months since Uncle Oren died. I hope his bill isn’t too much past due.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s paid for the work.”
It was my turn to goggle. “Not paid? But clearly—”
“I don’t know anything for certain. But the guy worked for Oren and Avi when they both lived here, from the time he was a teenager. Maybe there was some provision.” His expression darkened. “Or maybe he thought Oren would leave the place to him if he kept it up.”
“Uh…”
Carson showed his palms and chuckled. “Oh, not that I think there’s anything nefarious going on. But people get funny when money and property are involved. I’m a real estate agent. Trust me. I know all about that.”
I glanced at the house. “If nobody’s been inside for a decade…”
I shuddered to think what the interior might be like. Spiders. Mice. Rats. Gah! Taryn said she’d have the utilities turned on. But what would the inside of a refrigerator that hadn’t been opened in a decade smell like?
I added new appliances to my mental list of More Things On Which to Spend Money I Don’t Have.
This inheritance had come through in the nick of time, though, so maybe I’d get lucky again. Maybe Uncle Oren—or his apparent boyfriend—had just upgraded the entire house. Heck, ten-year-old technology was practically Star Trek compared to what I was used to. Before I’d moved into Greg’s condo six months ago, I’d lived in a seventies-era apartment with orange shag carpeting, and I still drove an ’81 Civic hatchback.
But unless I could actually get into the house, I’d never know about the conditions inside, and I’d probably be sleeping in the back of said hatchback, because the town of Ghost—and seriously, who named their town Ghost?—was noticeably lacking in reasonably priced motels. Or any motels, for that matter.
I peered at the keyhole again. It looked like it was jammed full of… sawdust?
“Seems this lock is non-functional.” I dangled the key chain—which contained a single key—and gave Carson my best smile. “I don’t suppose you know any other way in, from your days here in your youth?” His brow wrinkled and his lips thinned. Ooops. “Not that you’re not youthful now. I mean, all kids know the secret ways into and out of the house, right? How else could you sneak out when you’re supposed to be doing homework?”
His expression cleared a little, but still held a shadow of disapproval. “The back door is keyed the same as the front. But other than the windows—which you’d have to break to get in—the basement bulkhead doors are the only other means of egress, and they’re bolted from the inside.”
