Lost Between

Chapter 1 Curtis Macintyre sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding hard and harsh. He reached for his inhaler on his nightstand and sucked down a burst of air, waiting for it to calm his constricted chest. The air in his bedroom was bitingly cold. As his breaths puffed out, the air around him swirled into a mist. He fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on. Though at the moment the bedroom appeared empty in the dim light, Curtis knew differently. “You’re here again, aren’t you?” he asked softly, using his inhaler once more. His window was open and the curtain fluttered in a breeze. He fumbled out of bed and closed the window, turning back to face the room. On his nightstand his digital clock displayed 3:30. In the last month his visitor had shown up at least ten times. At first, Curtis had been scared shitless. He’d never experienced paranormal activity before and he had seriously questioned his sanity. Still did a bit. But it seemed his visitor did not mean him any harm. He just lingered always with a great, soul-sucking sorrow. “Can you show yourself?” he asked the ghost he knew wavered nearby. His answer, as usual, was silence. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you want or who you are,” Curtis said. He retrieved his bathrobe off a chair. He wouldn’t get back to sleep. He never did when his intruder came. “I don’t even believe in ghosts.” His bedroom door swung open, mocking him. Curtis sighed. “Yes, I know. You are real. Or seem to be.” He went out of his bedroom and down the short hall of his apartment to the kitchen. Might as well make coffee. The ghost or psychic phenomenon, whatever it was, thus far had not followed him from the bedroom. He wasn’t sure if that was because he couldn’t or wouldn’t. Or she. He had no way of knowing whether the ghost was male or female. After setting up his coffeemaker to brew, Curtis switched on the laptop sitting on his dining room table. He might as well get some work done. Curtis was a horror novelist and he couldn’t help wondering if perhaps his imagination was merely getting the best of him. Ghosts are not real. Except in the last month since his haunting or whatever they were had begun, he’d been telling himself the same thing. It didn’t seem to be working. Grabbing a cup of coffee that was more cream than coffee, Curtis sat in front of his laptop. He went to open his current work in progress when his hand stilled. Or rather it was stilled for him. Icy fingers curved around his palm nearly stealing his breath all over again. The ghost had followed him. His hand was moved to the Internet Explorer button and then Google. Shaking like a goddamn leaf, Curtis let the ghost direct his hand. He started typing, or the ghost did, Curtis wasn’t sure. Murder at the Forest Glenn Apartments. Curtis stared at the words he’d just typed and then hit search. “Holy f*****g hell,” he mumbled. “You were killed here, weren’t you?” * * * * “Madame Carmen de Garza,” Bentley Macintyre read the wooden sign hanging from the store front window. “How come all these fortune-tellers and mediums are named Carmen?” “I don’t know,” Curtis told his younger brother. He gazed at the brass knocker on the door for a moment. It looked like it was supposed to be a gargoyle or something. Maybe something he’d write about in one of his own novels. It was covered in dust, as though little used. Bentley looked nervously behind them. The parking lot was empty save for Curtis’s motorcycle. Not surprising given it was just before midnight. “Why is her place of business in a strip mall?” “Cheap rent? How should I know?” He rapped on the door with the knocker. His brother, a younger, thinner version of himself with dark wavy hair and brown eyes, inched closer to Curtis. “I’m not sure this was a good idea.” “I told you to stay home.” “And let you come to a séance all by yourself? No damn way.” He’d looked up mediums after his Google search of the murder at his apartment. The murder victim’s name had been Aaron Carmichael. He’d been killed five years ago and the case had never been solved. Curtis had a very unnerving suspicion that Aaron’s apartment had been number 117. Also Curtis’s. Of course he hadn’t told Bent he was being haunted by a murder victim. His family already suspected he was off his nut. How could he make up all that horror in his novels if he was right in the head? Not that Bent had ever let on he thought like the other members of their family, but Curtis wasn’t taking any chances. He’d told Bent he was doing research for a novel and his brother eagerly announced he was coming along. Bent inched even closer, if that was possible. “Couldn’t we have met with her during the day?” Curtis frowned and wrapped the knocker again. “Séances are generally at night, Bent. And Madame Carmen set the time for us to meet her.” “Maybe she stood us up,” Bent whispered, unable to hide the hope in his voice. “You can go home, you know. It’s okay. I’m fine by myself.” Okay, maybe he was a little creeped out, but it wasn’t like skinny scrawny Bentley would offer much protection anyway. “No, I’m not chickening out now. If you can do it, so can I.” Bentley straightened and pushed past Curtis, knocking loudly on the door with his fists. “Hey, we’re here! Open up.” Curtis laughed. “Chill, dude. You’ll wake the spooks two cemeteries away.” But it seemed to have the desired affect because suddenly the lock in the door slid back. Both of them backed up. He figured Bent was poised to bolt for the motorcycle. The door opened with a pronounced slowness that he might have written into his own novel. On the other side would be a hideous creature whose claws would rip out Curtis’s throat or perhaps a sexy vampire who would lure them to their death. A quite short, maybe five foot in heels, slim and pretty black woman peered at them. Definitely not hideous nor would he guess she was a vampire. “Madame Carmen?” “Yes. Mr. Macintyre?” She looked past him to Bentley. “And Mr. Macintyre?” “Yes.” Curtis nodded. “May we come inside?” Madame Carmen hesitated, studying the parking lot beyond them, but finally she stepped aside, holding the door open just enough for them to pass by her and into the shop. Curtis looked around the fairly square space, typical of the shops one usually saw in ubiquitous strip malls. Except for the décor. “Wait here for a moment,” Carmen said, then disappeared behind a heavy green drape. Bent looked around and then up. “Cobwebs?” Curtis snorted. “A little too obvious. Probably from a Halloween shop.” In fact, the place looked like some person’s idea of a Halloween haunted house. Besides the webs, there were black light bulbs hanging from blood-red lamps, old Queen Anne chairs draped in sheets, and an old suit of armor. He began to think this might be a waste of time. Not that he’d necessarily thought séances were actually real and really could reveal to him what Aaron Carmichael needed, but, well, hope sprang eternal. The drapes Madame Carmen disappeared through were at the back of the shop and so far she had not reappeared. He hoped he wasn’t being billed by the hour. “Madame Carmen?” “You may come through the curtains,” she said in a spooky voice. Bent made a woo-woo face and then grinned. Rolling his eyes, Curtis took the few steps to the drapes, then parted them. On the other side was a round table that would sit no more than four people. Upon the table had been laid a black tablecloth decorated with clear rhinestones. In the middle of the table was a glass sphere, a crystal ball, Curtis supposed. Next to that was a plastic poker chip. Dressed in velvet purple robes, Madame Carmen gestured to the chairs at the table. “Have a seat, gentlemen.” Curtis and Bent took seats across from an elaborate throne-like chair that Curtis guessed was Carmen’s. When they were seated, Carmen took her place in the throne. “The man you wish to summon is named Aaron Carmichael?” His brother tensed beside him. “What? Who is Aaron Carmichael?” He cleared his throat. “Well, I was doing research for my book and happened to Google the history of my apartment building.” “Forest Glenn,” Carmen said with a sharp nod. “Since I needed someone to contact during the séance, I chose Aaron Carmichael.” “Who is—” “Aaron Carmichael was murdered at the Forest Glenn apartments.” Carmen lit a candle. “I read the online article you referenced in our conversation.” “Murdered? Curtis, you didn’t tell me this,” Bent said, putting his hand on Curtis’s arm. “I know, I’m sorry.” Bent frowned. “Like decades ago when the building was new?” Forest Glenn was an old building built in the city in the 1930s. It was one of the reasons Curtis had chosen it two months earlier, he liked the old charm. Of course it had been through several renovations. “No, Aaron was murdered five years ago,” Curtis said softly. “Can we get on with this?” Carmen nodded. “This poker chip will be used for Aaron to communicate with us if he so desires. I will ask him to move it for us. Please understand not all spirits will cooperate. Aaron Carmichael may not wish to respond to us.” In other words Madame Carmen was covering her ass when Aaron’s ghost didn’t show up. “Shouldn’t we be trying to reach him at the place he was murdered or something?” Bent wondered. She sniffed. “That isn’t necessary. My connection with the spirit world is strong.” “All right,” Curtis said mildly. “And there are no refunds.” She put out her hand, palm up. “Two hundred as you agreed. Cash.” “Holy s**t,” Bent exclaimed. “I need to start doing séances. And to think I’m trying to go to college for a degree. I should be going to séance school.” Curtis reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. Withdrawing two hundred dollar bills, he placed them in Carmen’s outstretched hand. Carmen stuffed them in an opening of her robe and smiled. “Shall we begin?” “Do we need to grasp hands or something?” Bent asked. “No, that isn’t necessary. Now please, I need absolute silence.” Carmen waved her hands over the sphere, which suddenly had colored lights flashing from it. Neat trick, Curtis thought. She did this for a couple of minutes, not saying anything. Then she spoke in a low, overly dramatic voice. “Aaron Carmichael, if you can hear me, there is one here who wishes to contact you. His name is Curtis Macintyre. Will you speak to him?” He couldn’t be sure but he thought he heard a snort from Bent. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “If you will, move the poker chip.” Nothing happened. Big surprise. “Aaron Carmichael, will you speak to us?” The poker chip did not move. “What’s that about a fool and his money?” Bent whispered. Curtis did laugh then. He couldn’t help it. Madame Carmen sat back. “It appears our spirit is shy tonight.” “It appears so.” “That’s it then?” Bent raised an eyebrow. “For two hundred dollars? Don’t you have a guarantee or something?” “There are no guarantees in the spirit world, Mr. Macintyre. The spirits cannot be forced to do anything they do not wish. We can try another night if you would like,” she offered, blowing out the candle. Curtis nodded. “I’ll consider it.” * * * * Curtis stopped his motorcycle in front of Bentley’s apartment building. His brother swung off the bike and removed his helmet. “Dude, that was seriously smoked. I can’t believe you paid that phony two hundred bucks.” He couldn’t believe it either. He should have known it was a stupid idea. “Research. I’ll write it off on my taxes.” “Okay.” Bent smiled. “It was fun though. Next time you have more research, call me.” “I will. Night, Bent.” He waited for his brother to get inside his apartment safely before pulling his motorcycle away and driving to Forest Glenn. So, he hadn’t been able to contact Aaron. But he knew the ghost was real. Or at least he thought so. Curtis parked in his spot in the underground parking lot, road the elevator up to his floor, and went down the hall to apartment 117. After unlocking his door, he stepped inside and flicked on the light. He froze. Standing only a few feet away was a tall, good-looking, slim dark haired man dressed in jeans and a purple long-sleeved T-shirt. He stared at Curtis, tilting his head to the side. “Who the f**k are you?” Curtis demanded. “My name is Aaron.”