Page 15 of The Ghost of Ellwood
“What just happened?” Carter asked, his brow furrowed.
“I don’t know,” I finally said.
“I didn’t feel anything from where I was sitting.” His voice took on a higher pitch. “But when I grabbed you, Ben, it felt like something was holding onto you. The space around you was like ice.”
With his hand on my back, he frowned at the front door. I knew what he was thinking without him having to say a word. The house—more specifically, whateverhauntedthe house—didn’t want me here.
***
It took some convincing, but Carter eventually left. He hadn’t wanted to leave me alone.
While I appreciated his concern, it was misplaced. For a bit, I had nearly believed the manor was haunted, but I couldn’t wrap my head around the existence of paranormal beings. Ghosts, demons, vampires, zombies—they were all just stories meant to scare people.
They held no basis in the real world.
Maybe I was a stubborn skeptic, but what happened to me earlier could’ve been a panic attack. Just because I’d never had one before didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. I did research after Carter went home, and some people didn’t experience their first panic attack until they were well into their twenties or thirties. The attacks also seemed to happen out of the blue. Exhaustion and stress could play a large role in them, and I had battled with both over the past week.
The surprise over the manor’s dark past probably pushed me over the edge.
In my office that evening, I checked my inbox and sighed at the email from my publisher asking about the new book.
They wanted to know what I was working on and when I expected it to be finished. I had tossed them ideas over the past several months of multiple projects I had in mind. They kept suggesting a sequel toBloody Rage, my most successful novel, but the story was finished. Writing a sequel would be like beating a dead horse.
No, I needed to produce something fresh.
I sent them a quick reply, saying:“I’m working on something I think you’ll like. More details when I have them.”Vague, sure, but it was the best I could do.
Looking over my work-in-progress, though, I knew it wasn’t anything special. The plot was tired and lacked any kind of passion.
“Come on, Ben.” I put my face in my hands and bounced my knee. “Get the fuck over this block. You’re better than this.”
The light flickered.
I sat up straighter and peered at the lamp. Instead of the overhead light, I had turned on the desk lamp, thinking the soft glow would better set the mood for writing. Now I regretted it. The pitch blackness outside the window, plus the dark hallway outside the door, unsettled me.
Shifting my attention back to the screen, I grabbed the squishy ball and squeezed it over and over again. Pondering my options.
“This isn’t working.” I exited out of the story about Susan and her husband and opened a blank document.
The deafening silence drew on, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I clicked on the Spotify app on my laptop and chose my piano music playlist. It usually helped focus my mind. My last two books were slasher novels: a deranged killer picking off people in a town, and the other dealt with a group of friends who witnessed a murder and then started to go missing one by one.
I needed to go back to basics.
Bloody Ragewas about a vengeful spirit terrorizing a village.
Haunting of Shadowfield, another highly praised book, took place in an abandoned insane asylum.
Damn it all, I needed to write another ghost story. That was my brand. It’s what people loved about me.
“I believe that tragic events leave behind echoes of negative energy. And believe me, Ben, there’s been a lot of tragedy within these walls.”
Recalling Carter’s words shifted something in me. Inspiration swirled in my head. Excitement filled my chest and butterflies went wild in my stomach. I hopped up and grabbed a notebook, flipped it open, and jotted down notes on the first page.
For the first time in months, I believed I was on the right track.
After brainstorming for an hour, I decided to call it a night. But as I walked toward my bedroom, passing through the dark corridors, my mind was still going ninety-to-nothing. Maybe a hot shower would relax me enough to sleep. The stories Carter told poked my brain, and as I entered the bathroom, I looked at the bathtub and remembered Rick.
Had this been the bathroom?
