Ghosted: Experiment in Terror #9.5 Read online

  Ghosted

  Experiment in Terror #9.5

  Karina Halle

  Copyright © 2020 by Karina Halle

  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 Design: Hang Le Designs

  Edited by: Laura Helseth

  For my Dex

  Contents

  GHOSTED

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  About the Author

  Also by Karina Halle

  Experiment in Terror

  Reading Order

  Darkhouse #1

  Red Fox #2

  The Benson #2.5

  Dead Sky Morning #3

  Lying Season #4

  On Demon Wings #5

  Old Blood #5.5

  The Dex-Files #5.7

  Into the Hollow #6

  And With Madness Comes the Light #6.5

  Come Alive #7

  Ashes to Ashes #8

  Dust to Dust #9

  Ghosted #9.5

  Came Back Haunted #10

  Foreword

  Ghosted was originally published in the All the Love the World Anthology. While it’s a novella (told in Dex’s POV), it’s important that it be read after Veiled and before Came Back Haunted. The last book in the EIT series before this was Dust to Dust #9, however Ghosted takes place after Veiled (the EIT spinoff about Ada), so it makes sense to read it after Veiled.

  Came Back Haunted picks up where this story left off, so strap yourself in and get ready for the return of Dex and Perry!

  Chapter 1

  “Excuse me, are you Dex Foray?”

  I stop in my tracks as I’m walking past the Chief of Seattle statue in Tilikum Place, and look over my shoulder at a Danny Devito-sized man hurrying toward me, clutching an oversized trench coat around him that flaps in the cold breeze. Can’t pretend I didn’t see the man loitering outside of the apartment moments earlier, having followed me down the block. Of course, with my fucking luck, this is the type of stalker I get.

  “You don’t know me,” he says breathlessly, his voice coarse and nasal. He holds out one hand while trying to keep his coat closed with the other. “I’m Harry. Harry Cox.”

  Don’t laugh. Don’t fucking laugh.

  I bite back a grin, and turn around, staring at his hand for a moment before I give a hesitant shake. It’s small, chubby, clammy. I imagine it’s like shaking hands with a starfish.

  “How do you know who I am?” I ask him, just as the wind whips a fallen yellow leaf into his face, sticking to his black-rimmed glasses. “Better yet, how did you know where I live?”

  He reaches up and hastily wipes the leaf away.

  “Your address is on your website. I’ve been trying to reach you for a long time,” he says, giving me an apologetic smile. I’m a pro at reading people’s energies these days, more than I want to be, and this guy is anxious as fuck, which in turn sets me on edge. “But all my emails have gone unanswered. I’ve left some messages too.”

  “With who?”

  “With whom,” the man corrects me, and what a fucking dickladle this guy is. “I don’t know. I used the contact form through your website and I’ve left a few messages on your voicemail.”

  “My wife handles those,” I tell him, folding my arms across my chest. Perry runs a pretty tight ship when it comes to managing Haunted Media, our video production company, so it surprises me that she’d drop the ball with this guy. “And you’re what, a band manager?” I squint at his attire. “Accountant?”

  “As I’ve said on my many voice messages and emails,” he says, his voice growing a pitch higher, “I’m not interested in your video services. I’m interested in your other services.”

  I frown. Like…sexually?

  I raise my brow. “Well, Mr., uh, Cox. I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. We run a studio, primarily for music video production. We don’t have any other type of business. Or services. Of any kind. And if you don’t mind, I need to pick up my pizza before it gets cold.” I jerk my head toward Zeek’s, our local pizza parlor, before heading down the street toward it.

  “Experiment in Terror,” he calls out from behind me.

  I stop.

  He walks around me, getting between me and the pizza place. “I need those services.”

  I blink at him, trying to figure him out. His anxiety is still through the roof, but it’s coupled with something else. Desperation. It rises out of him, like steam from a turd. A most unsettling image.

  “We don’t…you know that was just a show, right?”

  “You saw those ghosts. I know they were real,” he says, his eyes sparking beneath his glasses. “I know they’re real too. That the monsters really do live under our beds.”

  Okay, now he’s looking a tad erratic. I can’t say that Perry and I don’t get stopped on the street from time to time by people who were fans of EIT, asking us if we’re going to do another episode, grilling us about what was real, or just wanting a lame-ass photo. But this guy…this guy’s not like them.

  “Look, Mr. Cox, I don’t understand what this is about,” I tell him firmly. “Whether what we filmed was real or not, that’s all done with. It’s over. We haven’t filmed a show in over three years.”

  “But you talk to the dead!” he cries out, loud enough that the people walking past us on street pause, give us a funny look. “That can’t just go away. That’s in you. That stays in you.”

  I stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s about to go a little fucknuts on me. I know crazy, believe me, and he’s walking a fine line here.

  “It doesn’t go away,” I tell him carefully, though I’m not sure why I’m being honest with someone I don’t know. “That’s the truth. And that’s one reason out of many why we don’t do the show anymore. We wanted to leave that chapter behind, if we could help it. Now, I’m sorry, but—”

  “My wife died,” he says softly, grabbing at his glasses with fumbling fingers and quickly wiping his eyes. He inhales sharply, slips the glasses back on. “She died. A year ago. I need you to talk to her. I know she’s still in the house.”

  I swallow, now picking up on his sorrow. It’s overwhelming.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, trying to distance myself from his emotions, which ripple through the air. “How did she die?”

  “She…drowned.”

  “And she’s still in your house?”

  “She’s in the house. Our old house. I don’t live there anymore. It’s boarded up.”

  “Listen, I’m not a paranormal investigator. I never was. Maybe a paranormal shit-disturber, at best.”

  “You can see things that others can’t.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m a medium.”

  “Your wife is.”

  I frown at him, tilting my head, a thread of defensiveness running through me whenever Perry is mentioned. “How would you know that?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen the footage.”

  “You’re making an awful load of assumptions from some grainy videos,” I tell him. “She’s not any of those things either. We’re just two people who went through some crazy fucking shit, who are trying to lead an ordinary life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”

  I turn to leave but the man reaches out and grabs my forearm, hard.

  A current of anger flows through me and I have to breathe in sharply to
keep it at bay. I don’t appreciate being manhandled on the street by low-rent Danny Devito and his tiny baby hands.

  “I’ll pay you,” he says. “I’ll pay you a lot of money. I just want you to come by, the both of you, go to the house, and talk to her. You don’t have to film it. I just want to know what my wife has to say. I have questions. I need answers.”

  I rip my arm out of his grasp and take a step back. “How much money?”

  The man looks around us, as if he’s finally getting the clue that he should have kept his voice down this whole time. He leans in to me. “A hundred grand.”

  I blink at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah. A hundred grand. I’ll write you a check right now.”

  He starts reaching into his coat and the movement snaps me out of my daze.

  “Hold on, wait a minute,” I say, raising my hands, trying to think.

  Is he fucking serious?

  A hundred grand?

  Just to attempt to talk to his dead wife?

  I hate the way my heart is beating fast at the thought of a hundred thousand dollars and how many fucking problems that would solve for us.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says quickly. “That it’s a lot of money.”

  “Fucking hell it’s a shitton of money. How would you even—”

  “I have money,” he says quickly. “Don’t worry about that. It’s legitimate. It’s worth it to me.”

  I shake my head, knowing there’s a catch.

  “Let me get this straight, before my mind starts running away on me. You want to give me and my wife one hundred thousand dollars to go into your old house and talk to your dead wife? What if we can’t make contact? What if nothing happens?”

  “Then you keep the money,” he says gravely. “It will be worth it just to see you try.”

  Worth it? There’s no way I could keep the money if we were unsuccessful. I mean, I’m no saint, of course I would be tempted, but I’m pretty sure Perry would refuse. Hell, she might refuse this idea at any rate.

  “I’m going to have to think about it,” I say after a moment.

  “You think about it,” he says. “But it’s Halloween in a couple of days and I’ve been doing my research. I think that’s when you should do it. That’s when it’s easier to communicate with spirits, where the Veil is thin. The witches call it Samhain.”

  “Uh huh,” I say carefully, running my hand over the stubble on my chin. I’m not exactly how true that is since the two of us have tussled with the dead and undead on ordinary Tuesdays. Plus, we already have plans on Halloween. “I’ll see what Perry says.”

  “Please do,” he says. He reaches into his pocket and hands me his business card.

  Harry Cox.

  Accountant.

  “I knew it,” I mutter under my breath. The guy has numbers dweeb written all over him.

  “Not for a band. Just an ordinary accountant, I’m afraid.”

  “An ordinary accountant with a hundred grand to spare?” I raise my brow.

  He gives me a curt nod, quickly ties his coat shut over his rotund belly, and then says, “I really hope I’ll be hearing from you, Mr. Foray.”

  And then he turns around and disappears down Cedar Street past the 5 Point Café. I watch him for a moment, then almost head back to the apartment until I remember the pizza and the fact that Perry would kill me if I didn’t come back with our dinner. I don’t think any amount of money would suffice her hanger.

  I grab the pizza from Zeek’s, and then head back down the street, walking alongside the monorail and back to our building

  When I walk inside our apartment, Perry’s leaning against the island in the kitchen, her dark hair flowing around her face, blue eyes wild with hunger.

  “What took you so long?” she asks, practically ripping the pizza box out of my hands.

  “I ran into someone,” I tell her, grabbing the plates from the cupboard and placing them on the counter.

  “Uh huh,” she says, shoving a pizza slice in her mouth. Her eyes fall close with pleasure as she chews, which makes me smile. She has a strained relationship with food sometimes, so to see her enjoy it so hedonistically is a relief.

  Okay, it’s also a bit of a turn-on.

  “Aren’t you curious who?” I ask, pulling a slice toward me and sitting down on the stool. “Or whom.” That fucker.

  She finishes chewing, swallows, and looks at me with her full attention. “Yes.”

  “Harry Cox.” I can’t help but snicker as I say it.

  Perry, however, isn’t smiling. “What?”

  “I take it you’ve heard of him? Least that’s what he told me.”

  She frowns. “How did he find you?”

  “Our address is on the website. Is there a reason you didn’t tell me about him?”

  She sighs heavily and looks away, worry on her brow. “Because the man is a joke.”

  “Is he now? What makes you say that?”

  She gives me a sharp look. “If you met him, I’m sure he told you what he’s been emailing and calling me about.”

  “Emailing and calling us. This is an us, kiddo. We’re a team here. You should have told me. You know nothing good comes from keeping secrets.” I pause, biting my lip. “It’s not exactly fair that you can access my mind anytime you want but I’m often shut out of yours.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You know it doesn’t work that way.”

  Yeah, yeah. She says that all the time. It’s her go-to excuse, but I know that since she has the ability to read minds at will (not everyone’s mind, and not always very clearly), it’s made our marriage a little one-sided at times.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “you can pick up on feelings and energies. It’s pretty much the same.”

  “It is very much not the same. If I meet someone and they’re giving off the vibes that they’re afraid of me, the buck stops there. I don’t know why they’re afraid of me. I just know that they are. But you do.”

  “It’s because you’re a weirdo,” she says with a smirk.

  “I’m not asking you why they’re afraid of me. Anyway, point being…you’re the fucking weirdo here.”

  She laughs and then grows serious, her gaze sharpening. “Back to Mr. Cox.”

  “Really? You’re not going to use his full name? Cheap laughs may be cheap, but they count.”

  I can tell by her steely gaze she’s not finding me very amusing at the moment, nor the name of Harry Cox.

  “What did he want?” she asks.

  “For us to go into his old boarded-up haunted house and have a fucking séance with his dead wife.”

  She presses her lips together into a thin line. I already know that it’s going to be an uphill battle to even get her to consider this. Hell, I can’t blame her. It was absolutely out of the question until Mr. Dick started waving his check book around.

  “And you wondered why I didn’t pass the messages along?” she asks, reaching for another slice of pizza.

  “Did he tell you he wants to pay us?”

  Her hand freezes in mid-air, her eyes flitting up to mine. “No.”

  I grab her hand and hold it, giving it a squeeze. “He wants to pay us a lot of money to do this. I know it sounds fucking ridiculous, the whole being paid a bunch of money to spend a night in a haunted house, but that’s pretty much the deal.”

  “How much money is a bunch of money?”

  “A hundred grand.”

  Her hand goes limp in mine, her mouth gaping. “What?” She takes her hand back, eyes round. “A hundred grand?”

  I nod. “That’s what he said.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I think so. The man is desperate, Perry.”

  She continues to stare at me, dumbfounded. “That…none of this makes any sense.”

  “For what it’s worth, I didn’t get the impression he was lying or trying to fuck us over. I don’t know, I’m sure you can get a better read on him and find out the truth, but I have to say,
I think he’s damn serious.”

  “It’s a trap.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. Why would anyone have that much money to give?”

  “I don’t think it really matters.”

  “Well, what does he do?”

  “He’s an accountant.”

  She laughs in disbelief. “An accountant? What does he do, launder money for a drug cartel? This isn’t Ozark.”

  “Maybe he does. Either way, it’s a hundred fucking grand. This would change our whole life, Perry.”

  Her jaw tenses and she straightens up, leaning on the counter. “You’re seriously considering this?”

  “You’re seriously not?” I throw my hands out. “Do you not realize what that money can do for us?”

  “Do you not realize that this could destroy us?!” Her voice is high, shrill, and there’s fear washing over her, radiating outward like a tidal wave.

  Fuck.

  “Baby,” I say to her quietly, feeling every cell inside me soften. I go over around the island and grab her hands, holding them up and pressing them against my chest. “Talk to me. Talk me through this. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “Why do you even have to ask?” she says softly.

  “Because that’s how we communicate. Please don’t expect me to read your mind, because I can’t.”

  “You’re asking me to step into that world again.”

  “I’m not asking anything of you yet, just to listen, just to consider it.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  Her words slice me. Usually Perry is pretty even keeled, except when she’s PMSing (and I know better than to ever admit that out loud to her), but for the past few weeks she’s been on edge. I’ve been waiting for her to tell me and talk to me about it, but I suppose that’s a conversation for another time.

  “Explain,” I say patiently.