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  Shadows

  Copyright © K.I. Lynn

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the author.

  Cover design by Take Cover Designs

  Editors

  Marti Lynch

  Publication Date: October 10, 2018

  ISBN–13: 978-1-948284-04-2

  ISBN–10: 1-948284-04-9

  Genre: FICTION/Romance/Paranormal

  Copyright © 2018 K.I. Lynn

  All rights reserved

  CHAPTER 1

  Seven years, three weeks, six days, fourteen hours, fifty-two minutes, and six seconds—the length of time I’ve been trapped here.

  The length of time I’ve been dead.

  Dead.

  And it sucks.

  Even now it sounds wrong, foreign. Killed in my prime by a damn disease; stupid cancer.

  Strangely, I don’t look like I did when I died, but before it took over and ate me away. Maybe that’s my mind’s eye, remembering how I used to be: brown hair, hazel eyes, and my body no longer trying to do a skeleton impression. The afterlife is probably much better in this form than the one I died in. Not that anything in this afterlife is better than those last weeks.

  I’m still trapped in one place, only it’s not my body that holds me, but my house.

  I always thought when you died you went on to a better place: Angels and all that crap. But I’m still here.

  There is no unfinished business from my life, so why haven’t the pearly gates opened? Where is the bright light for me to follow? What keeps me locked here in my house?

  The years have flown by around me, and I’m still stuck. It’s annoying to watch people move in and out, abusing my home. Bought and sold three times over now, and the newest purchaser is due to move in today. I haven’t seen them; I was avoiding my newest possible roommate when they were showing it, hiding up in the attic.

  Yes, I say roommate. This is my house as long as I’m still here. Odd how all the ghost horror movies always had the ghost talking about how it was their house. I never understood until I became one myself.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if I could leave, go see the world. Instead, I wait for another intruder that makes me question everything all over again. My anger and frustration rise, and I lash out at the only thing left in the house. The blinds jostle as my hand rakes through them. Barely a fair reaction to my unseen outburst. A pale realization of my emotional tantrum.

  I really wish there was something breakable, because the blinds swaying back and forth is pathetic.

  I roll my eyes, watching as they swing. Through the small slats I see a moving van parked out front. I stretch my neck for a better view. A small figure moves toward the door, and so do I.

  I’m angry, an almost tangible force, and I want to welcome them to my home. I want to scare them, because it’s the only thing I have left in my lonely existence.

  The handle moves, the door creaking open, and just when I am ready to strike out at the intruder there is a yelp.

  Suddenly there is a head full of long brown hair sprawled out on the floor at my feet. Her foot must have caught the door jamb and she tripped, falling to the hardwood below.

  Surprise snuffs out my anger, and I stare down at her curiously as she groans and pulls her body from the ground. Her head tilts up, and I am met with large blue eyes staring up at me. Eyes that lock directly onto mine.

  I stumble back in shock.

  She’s looking directly at me. At me!

  A voice calls out to her, drawing her attention away from me.

  “Are you all right?” one of the movers asks.

  “Fine, fine,” she says, turning to reassure them. Her head snaps back to me, a confused look on her face. Her gaze darts around, but this time she doesn’t see me anymore.

  Maybe she didn’t really see me, but something tells me she did. No one has seen me—not since I was living.

  I retreat to the attic, watching from the window as they unload the truck and move everything inside. I tell myself I sit on this perch because I can’t stand to see another person move their stuff in, but really it’s because I can’t shake the feeling she saw me—actually saw me.

  CHAPTER 2

  She’s alone, that much I can tell. Not enough stuff for more than one. After a few hours, the movers leave and I decide to head back down. I want to get a better look at her.

  There are boxes everywhere: sitting on the ground, on tables, stacked against the wall. She’s in the kitchen, unpacking the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. I can’t help but stare at her, watching as she moves.

  She is beautiful. It’s a subtle beauty, not overstated or overdone. Oval face, pale skin, big blue eyes, and plump pink lips. No makeup, just natural beauty. Her hair is thrown back into a messy bun, loose strands flying with every movement.

  As she flits about the kitchen I notice how she knocks into almost everything; the counter, drawers, the boxes at her feet. Her brow scrunches with some, others she doesn’t seem to even notice. With the way she entered, and watching her now, I have to wonder: Can clumsiness be a natural state?

  Days pass in the blink of an eye, and I find I’m enamored with her. The whole house is now decorated with her, consumed with her. Books are packed into the shelves, trinkets displayed, and a few framed photographs on the fireplace mantle.

  Holly. Her name is Holly.

  The phone hardly rings, and when it does the conversations are short. Some friends are trying to get her to go out on Saturday night, but I can tell from her expression and gestures that it is the last thing she wants to do.

  I wonder why, but when she curls up on the couch with a hot cup of tea, her tablet, and a smile on her face, I understand. She’s a homebody, which suits me.

  I like her presence, which is a first. For some reason, she doesn’t grate on me like the others. She intrigues me, and so I do what I do best—silently sit with her. It’s almost like we’re in the same space, almost a human feeling, though I know it’s not, but for a fraction of a second I remember what it’s like to be with another person.

  I actually dislike it when she’s gone for work. I can’t take my eyes off her, and sometimes I stand way too close when she’s washing dishes. I think she knows she’s not alone—she’s very perceptive.

  Well, perceptive when it comes to the unnatural. The watching for things right in front of her eyes so she doesn’t hurt herself? Not so much.

  I notice her about to slam her head into the cupboard and shut it for her. Her eyes widen at the movement, and search for the source. She doesn’t find me, even though I’m standing less than six inches from her.

  Another time her shoes are haphazardly thrown about the room, like usual, and she nearly trips on one. I move it out of the way, and she doesn’t even notice. It doesn’t take much energy, and this way I don’t have to see the bruises blossom on her beautiful skin.

  After a few days of moving a multitude of items out of her path, I kick a pillow she is about to step on away and blow out a hard breath. Is it too much for her to look where she’s walking?

  She smiles as she watches the fluff-stuffed cloth topple across the floor. “Thanks. I was about to step on that, wasn’t I? Probably end up twisting my ankle.”

  My gaze snaps to her, to the smile on her lips. Is she talking to herself, or to me?

  CHAPTER 3 br />
  Most of the time I sit in the chair opposite her when she’s curled on the couch, watching her while she reads or binges whatever show has her attention. Every day I move closer, little by little, until I am sitting on the coffee table in front of her. She doesn’t even notice me. Besides keeping her safe from herself, I haven’t let her know I’m here yet. Unlike the others, I don’t want to scare her.

  The strap to her tank top has slid down her shoulder, and all I want to do is slip it back up. To touch her. What I wouldn’t give to be the pillows she’s leaning against, her head on my chest.

  Unconsciously, my hand reaches out to touch her arm. She shudders, goose bumps pebbling her flesh before she pulls the blanket over her arm. I glance to her face, and I’m greeted by her eyes staring at me again. Shock rockets through me and I jump back, knocking her glass off the table, sending it spilling all over the floor.

  She curses, jumping up to grab a towel to soak the water up from the hardwood floors. The glass remains intact, and she takes it along with the soaked rag into the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry,” she says softly from the other room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  My brow scrunches; she didn’t really see me, did she?

  I retreat back to the attic, unable to fathom that the beautiful woman living in my home can actually see me. At the same time I wonder what I did that she was able to do so, and if I could do it again.

  ***

  She comes home with a box a few days later, the contents dinging as she pulls them out: wind chimes. She hangs them in the window in the living room, by the couch. I stare at them, wondering why she put them inside the house. They sing when I move my hand through them, chiming away, and she smiles.

  “Hi,” she says, and I realize the wind chimes are for me.

  A warmth spreads through me that I don’t expect. She’s accepted my presence and doesn’t seem to be afraid in the least bit. Aren’t women supposed to get all spooked? Yet every time I move the wind chimes, she smiles.

  I can tell she’s tired today. She returned home much later than normal, and I find I miss her very much when she isn’t here. Her eyes seem to be reading the same passage over and over, unable to focus.

  She sighs, and the tablet falls down to her lap. “You know, staring at a girl when she’s trying to read can be a bit unnerving.”

  I kick her shoe that’s sitting on the ground.

  She quirks her brow and puts the tablet down on the table as she sits up straight.

  “Are you bored?”

  I roll my eyes. Too bad she can’t see it.

  Of course I’m bored! I’m dead! Stuck in my house for apparently all eternity!

  My mood is sour; I know it’s because all I want to do is take care of her after a long day, and I can’t even fucking touch her. I’m grouchy. A grouchy motherfucking ghost.

  Death sucks.

  “Well, I’m going to go take a shower,” she says, getting up from the couch.

  I can only see her profile, but the smirk on her face is noticeable, even at that angle.

  Silently—because I’m always fucking silent—I follow her up the stairs. It’s like she has some magical pull on me; I always want to be near her. She heads to the adjoining bathroom in the master bedroom, and I slide down the wall just outside the door.

  Listening to the sound of the water splashing, hitting her skin, awakens parts of me I thought long gone. I know I should go, give her privacy, but I feel like she invited me up here for some reason. It was that smirk, I know it, but I just don’t understand why.

  My head snaps up as a low guttural moan cuts through the spraying water, followed by another. They pick up in frequency and volume, crescendoing up an octave. If I could blush, I would. My head slams back into the wall, over and over, as the thoughts of her touching herself fill my mind. Without realizing it I’ve moved into the bathroom, staring at the figure obstructed by the ripples of the obscure glass of the shower door.

  My fingers are itching to touch her, to feel her skin beneath them. Her sensual cries pick up, and I can make out her hand moving furiously. I don’t even stop myself from moving, though I should. I would get wet stepping into the shower if I were alive. Instead the spray falls right through me.

  She is the most divine woman I’ve ever seen in my… existence. Her feminine curves are so alluring, and I want to touch her. The back of my hand runs along the side curve of her breast, but I can’t really feel her.

  She draws in a shuddering breath and her eyes open, locking on mine. One hand pinches hard at her nipple, while the other frantically brushes over her clit. Her face scrunches up as her mouth opens, a scream escaping as she falls over the edge of her orgasm, all the while her gaze never leaves mine.

  My… ethereal body reacts to her display in a way I didn’t know possible, and I find myself not knowing what to do about it. Can ghosts masturbate? Or is this just some sort of mental reaction, knowing my body would have reacted this way?

  And why the hell isn’t there some afterlife handbook? That could really come in handy with situations like this.

  The sad look seconds later on her face tells me I’m invisible again, that whatever brief moment of clarity into the beyond she had is now gone.

  She gets ready for bed, and I sit there at my wall perch, watching as she puts on her night shirt and crawls under the covers.

  “Goodnight,” she whispers. “Hope you enjoyed the show.”

  That I did, and I really wish I could show her how much, but instead I stay against the wall and watch her as she dreams.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning she gets ready to leave and heads for the door. I reach out to her, grabbing for her hand, not wanting for her to go as she steps out.

  And takes me with her.

  I stand on the front stoop, surprised at being outside the front door for the first time in eight years. A large grin spreads on my face, the barrier that held me prisoner broken when she pulled me through with her. She’s hundreds of feet away when I break from my euphoric bubble, and I run to catch up to her.

  Though running doesn’t have any of the side effects it did when I was alive. It feels weird. It should be hard to breathe, but it’s not. I should feel the endorphins pumping through my veins. Then I remember I don’t have veins any longer.

  Once at her side, I look around and am startled by how many others like me I see.

  I’m not alone after all.

  They’re a pop of bright color, but somehow translucent and shadowy at the same time. An odd combination that shouldn’t work, but maybe on this plane of existence, that’s how light works.

  A young girl smiles from the top of a picnic table where she is watching a chess game. Her little hand waves at me, and I can’t help but wave back. An elderly man sits next to an elderly woman. He moves to take her hand in his, but it falls right through. I can see the sobs that shake his body, and know the need he has to touch her, because I suffer from the same affliction.

  I wonder if it’s worse, to have actually touched the person and not be able to, or to be like me; wanting with barely a memory of what another’s touch feels like.

  There are so many of them, but with almost each of them I can see why there are still here. There is someone they are waiting for. I don’t have that, and once again I question my role in this dead, lingering life.

  There are others like me, though. One even screams out to me, begging for an answer of why she is still here.

  I wish I knew. I’d gladly tell her, but I don’t. So, I follow Holly and let her lead me around the outside world.

  Amazing what has changed since I’ve been locked away in my cage. The sign outside the building says it’s the public library, but it isn’t the library I remember. Inside it is state of the art and futuristic.

  She’s looking for a new book; the last one didn’t inspire her, I guess.

  We move around the library as she looks at different sections before she stops, her slender fin
gers flipping through pages. I don’t think anything of it until I look at the titles of the books and then look at the one in her hand.

  How To Speak To The Dead

  My eyes widen, and I laugh out loud. Her gaze flitters about, and I wonder if she can hear me.

  “Shut up, you,” she whispers through gritted teeth, smiling, and I laugh louder.

  She is so cute, researching ways to talk to me.

  I settle down and read through the spines as she takes a seat at a nearby table with a stack in her arms. There is one I find might be interesting, and I pull it down from the shelf, letting it tumble to the ground.

  She sighs and gets up from her chair to walk over and pick the book up.

  “This one?” she asks. “Hmm, let’s see.”

  I smile as she delves into the book, searching out answers to her questions.

  I sit with her, reading over her shoulder, and find most of it is gibberish. All written by the living and having no real idea of the dead. Some things I find accurate, and some maybe even helpful. Her hand blindly scribbles notes down on a pad, and I can’t help but lean forward and breathe her in.

  That’s when I feel it.

  Someone—or something—is watching me. Cold washes through me, the edges of it spiked with a spine-tingling sensation. It’s odd, because I don’t feel, and I know that is the feeling I evoke in people.

  My head spins around, searching out whatever it is, and stops on the floor below. A shadowy figure cloaked in darkness floats in between two racks of books. It’s large—easily two to three times the size of me. Dark tendrils circle around it along with cloud of darkness that steals the light from nearby.

  I don’t know what it is—another reason for that damn manual—but I can tell it’s not friendly.

  Its red eyes glow, and are trained on Holly.

  I need to get her out of here.

  Pushing all of the books onto the floor is my only way to gain her attention. She yelps in confusion, startled by the sudden action. I need to stress upon her how imperative it is we leave, and this is the only way I can find. Gathering up all the energy I can summon, I pull on her wrist, hard, trying to get her to move, to leave.