You're Not Alone

By Nance Newman

When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it. Nothing more. At least that’s what Quinn O’Reilly thinks. But then she starts hearing whispers after losing Matthew, the love of her life, to cancer. Quinn either has to start believing in an afterlife or admit that her own sanity is in jeopardy. As Matthew’s parents fight Quinn for his estate, threatening her with financial ruin, the voices intensify.

To make the voices stop, Quinn enlists the help of a woman who communicates with the afterlife, the owner of a cemetery, and an odd professor of Egyptian studies. They enter a world of séances, grave digging, and spells from the ancient Book of the Dead.
To help her do this, Quinn turns to Chaz, her gay best friend and assistant at work. He has been by her side from the beginning and as bizarre as Chaz believes this task is, he follows Quinn, Andjela, Chester and Mr. Princeton into the world of spirits, ghosts and specters. He just never knows what to wear. What’s appropriate attire for a séance or digging up a grave?

What Quinn and the others must do to unravel the mystery of the whispers tests Quinn’s belief system in every way. Can the dead really reach out from the other side? Can Quinn open her mind enough to help her and her dead lover? And, is it okay to commit a crime for a greater purpose?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nance Newman
• Release date: Jan 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370460441

Nance Newman

I firmly believe it is never too late to make your dreams a reality.I worked at Eastman Kodak in Motion Picture film for over twenty years before the company started to downgrade. After that, I was a teacher in Health and Physical Education and completed my years of work in a school district in transportation where I used software to solve the puzzle of getting 5600 students to many different schools as well as train new bus drivers.I am now retired—from work, but not from writing!I have always been a writer, and always will be. Since high school, I have written songs, novels, short stories, and journals. I have one dog—Ela-who is a rescue from the Puerto Rican hurricanes. She has taught me a little Spanish and I have taught her a lot of English.I enjoy being active outdoors in all seasons and partake in many different activities from kayaking, long distance biking, a lot of walks and hiking to gardening. I also love movies—most genres, but especially fantasy and science fiction.Most of all I love to write and tell stories.Please visit me at nancenewman.com because I would love to share my stories and music with you

Book preview

Chapter One

Whispers. Two. No, three. Maybe more. I couldn’t tell. The hushed sounds echoed in my room. I could hear them, but I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Nearly silent voices all murmuring at once, speaking but not making sense. The sounds began to resonate around me, ricocheting off the walls, closing in, crowding me. The whispers blurred into a drone that screamed at me.

What do you want? I called out in vain. What are you saying? I can’t understand you! The voices increased in intensity almost as if there was an uncontrollable need to make me understand. What? What do you want? Please, go away! I don’t know what you want! I screamed. The whispers stopped.

I sat bolt upright in bed. Sweating, shaking. I clutched my pillow and looked frantically about the room. No one. Alone. I began to cry as the agony gripped me once again. Matthew had been gone for almost a year, but it felt as if it was the very day he passed away. Colon cancer.

He fought gallantly. He kept telling me he was going to be around for a long, long time, so I better get used to it. But Matthew stayed on this earth for less than a year after his diagnosis, and now he was in the earth.

The cancer had spread to his other organs. It wasn’t caught in time, and he was gone before we could do all of the things we had talked about—visit the Grand Canyon, take a hot air balloon ride, retire and settle along the Saint Lawrence River where we purchased a cottage in the Thousand Islands. He died before I could tell him everything I wanted to—that my world hadn’t really existed until the day I found him, and that I loved him more than life itself. Now, Matthew was gone, and I didn’t love life anymore.

I leaned against the headboard sobbing as I asked the same questions I had asked so many times before. Why, Matthew? Why did you have to leave me? I cried aloud. I reached over to the nightstand to grab a wad of Kleenex, and then feverishly wiped my face trying to rid myself of not only the tears, but also the torture of my dreams and the voices that started after Matthew died.

I rolled over and looked out the window of our bedroom. Our two-bedroom apartment was in a large, older home, one of many city houses that had been converted into apartments over the years. Matthew and I fell in love with it from the first moment we saw the for sale sign. The grand Victorian had all the old gum wood trim, leaded glass windows, and large brick fireplaces that were trademarks of these majestic homes where the rich of the city once played, worked, and lived. When the depression hit, it was too expensive for many of the owners to maintain the enormous homes and eventually, as the families filtered out, the landlords filtered in.

Our particular structure already had a tenant in one of the two downstairs apartments. We knocked on the door to find out a little more about the building and the neighborhood. A prestigious professor who worked at the University of Rochester answered.

Investing in the city, he told us was the reason he moved into the dwelling, but when we saw the way he looked at the wide, ornate wood staircase separating the apartments, Matthew and I realized it was more about Mr. Princeton’s love of the exquisite architecture than the investing. In fact, Mr. Princeton told us with a wink, I was thinking about putting an offer in myself, but I like the freedom of renting.

Mr. Princeton gave us the key to the upstairs apartment. We strolled slowly up the grand staircase that was most likely part of the front foyer when the house was a single dwelling. The two downstairs and two upstairs apartments stretched from the front of the building to the back, with one on either side of the staircase. We let ourselves in the upstairs unit directly above Mr. Princeton’s, and ambled down the length of the apartment to the master bedroom that was situated in the back. A long, elegant window on the far side of the room overlooked a wild vista of woods that crept up a hill behind the house to a neighboring park.

It was in front of that window, looking out at the trees that we decided to put in an offer, hopefully before Mr. Princeton did. We continued to wander hand-in-hand throughout what would become our new apartment, admiring the work of the many artisans who created these homes: the intricacy of the carved molding, the unique glass windows, the mosaic tiling and tin ceilings in the kitchen and bathroom, the ornamental plaster ceilings in the living room and dining room.

The living room walls spread out to a small circular alcove enclosed with enchanting beveled windows on the front, decorated with lace crown moldings. Matthew was so enthralled with the room, light beaming in from every window, that he named it our castle turret in the sky.

Great place for a Christmas tree, he whispered in my ear. And it was there every year that the tree stood in all its glory with the multi-colored lights reflecting in prism patterns from one window to the next.

The bedroom window was a transom to the trees that spread out across the back of the yard, and tonight was one of those nights that a cool breeze was making the trees look as if they were dancing to the rhythm of the twinkling stars. Matthew and I used to love to lie in our bed any time of the day or night, watching and listening to the sounds of nature seldom heard in a city. Yet, here in our part of the city, the sounds were unmistakably from a world that usually existed outside its borders.

It was at these times I missed him so much I didn’t want to take another breath.

I fell back onto the bed. I needed to get some rest, yet I was afraid to sleep, afraid the whispers would come back and occupy all the space in my head as they did most nights since Matthew passed.

Maybe the sounds were coming from the neighboring apartment, I thought to myself, trying to invent a plausible reason for them. Forcing that theory to work, I directed my train of thought toward believing the sounds I heard were from my neighbors having sex. That made me giggle because despite my fear, I wasn’t sure which was worse—listening to my neighbors having sex or knowing there was no human form tied to the soft murmurs I heard.

Eventually, I drifted off to sleep, yet somewhere in the depths of my mind, the whispers continued, waiting for a chance to bombard my dreams once again.

***

I rolled over and punched the alarm clock. Literally. Matthew always took care of turning it off. The ritualistic six o’clock buzzer was only another reminder that the love of my life was no longer lying beside me through the night, no longer pushing the button that stopped the insufferable beeping and then smothering me with wake-up kisses. He would never again surprise me by climbing into the shower with me in the morning.

Shit! I shouted as the clock fell to the floor. I picked it up and examined the small box that was dented and no longer showing any signs of life. I always hated the damn thing anyway. Now I have a reason to get a new one. I reached behind the nightstand and yanked the plug out of the wall socket. I tossed the device back on to the floor. I was lost. Lost in the morning, the day, and the night. I’d struggled to find a new routine without Matthew, but I didn’t seem to be able to find one that I could repeat every day other than the one where I was continually late for work.

By eight thirty, I was finally grabbing my keys and purse to leave, mumbling that if I didn’t pull myself together soon, I could lose my business. Before I could get out the door, my cell phone rang.

"Hello?

Miss O’Reilly please?

This is she.

Miss O’Reilly, this is Mr. McIntosh with McIntosh, Bryer and Smith. We are representing the Shikman family.

My heart sank—Matthew’s parents. When Matthew became sick, his parents wanted him to come home. He refused because he loved me and told me no matter what his parents thought, we were a couple, a family, and his place was in his home with his partner. But Matthew’s parents didn’t feel the same way, and they let me know it at the funeral and every day since. I hadn’t been allowed to sit up front with the family at Matthew’s service. I was looked upon as his friend, his roommate, but certainly not his family. It didn’t take his parents long after to show up at the apartment to claim Matthew’s belongings. I wouldn’t let them in, thus, the lawyer.

What can I do for you Mr. McIntosh?

The Shikmans would like to discuss times they can collect their son’s belongings. They’ve waited long enough. If you cooperate, they won’t bring the authorities into the matter.

I haven’t finished packing everything yet. That was a lie. I hadn’t packed anything.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Besides, Matthew always told me he would take care of me.

He wouldn’t leave me in this predicament. Yet, here I was.

We also need to discuss Matthew’s share in the property on the Saint Lawrence River and the rental property you’re residing in.

What is there to discuss? I said angrily. Those properties belonged to the both of us, and Matthew wanted me to have them, not his parents.

Do you have this in writing, a will perhaps? Do you have the mortgage papers and/or the deeds? You could send—

I yelled into the phone, I-I don’t know. I haven’t gone through everything yet. I told you that.

Miss O’Reilly…

Oh God, I thought, here it comes again.

You weren’t married, and you haven’t produced a will. I cannot hold off the Shikmans any longer. They would like to get this settled. They’ve drawn up an offer to buy out your half of the properties or for you to buy out Matthew’s half. Either way, if you decide against it, they will force you to sell. He paused. They also have a right to their son’s belongings—

Before the lawyer could finish, I was once again screaming into the phone. "What about my rights? Those properties are my business, my home. I loved him. I loved him! We were married in our eyes and that’s all that matters so bring the damn authorities if you want to! I will get the stuff to them when I go through it, and I’ll get the papers to you when I’m good and ready. Good day, Mr. McIntosh!"

Infuriated, I threw my cell phone against the wall. Bending over to retrieve it, I noticed the battery came out of it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I picked up the phone and battery. I fumbled with the pieces, but my hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the battery back into its compartment. I hurled the phone back on the floor.

Yielding to all of the emotions churning within me since Matthew died and the Shikmans began to torture me, I fell to my knees sobbing. Fine, I’ll get another phone. In fact I’ll just get everything new—a new alarm clock too! I’ll leave this place and everything in it and start again. The damn Shikman family can have it all.

I crawled over to where the phone lay and picked it up. I leaned against the wall as my body wretched with the pain and anger from Matthew leaving me in this situation, coupled with guilt for being mad at him. It wasn’t his fault he got cancer. He didn’t want to leave me. Deep down I knew that. Matthew wasn’t to blame because I couldn’t find any of the papers I needed to settle all of this, and it wasn’t his fault I couldn’t find a will. I didn’t know if he even made a will, but I was pretty sure he didn’t.

Matthew struggled with his love for me and his respect for his father. On many levels, I knew his father didn’t accept me as a prospective daughter-in-law, one reason being our differences in religion. He also didn’t approve of us shacking up, as Matthew often jokingly referred to our living situation. Matthew’s struggles with his morals and values were internal and he didn’t talk to me about it much. I was okay with that because I knew in my heart, when he was ready, he would.

Matthew’s illness had consumed us. It took everything we had to stay positive and deal with it, so the last thing on my mind was that he was going to die and I needed to protect myself. Then he was gone and so was the chance of talking to him about making a will or asking him where he kept all his papers.

Damn, it was my fault. I should have known those things. I should have asked. Now, all I knew was I didn’t want to lose my home and no matter what, I wouldn’t. This was the home Matthew and I owned and shared together. I was damned if anyone was going to take that away from me.

Several deep breaths later, I finally gained control. I glanced at my watch and saw it was nine o’clock. God, I thought, late again. This can’t be good. I slowly got up off of the floor and dragged myself to the living room. I plopped down on the couch and picked up the phone on the end table. My brain struggled to recall my assistant’s phone number even though I had called it hundreds of times. It took two tries before I dialed it correctly.

While I waited for Chaz to answer the phone, I thought about how having a gay assistant who was not only aware of my situation, but also had total sympathy for it, was a bonus. Discrimination was discrimination, and Chaz understood that completely. I didn’t think anyone cared much anymore what religion you were, but the Shikmans did and I didn’t totally understand that until Matthew died. Chaz had picked up the slack for me after Matthew passed. That guilt was also weighing on me because Chaz was left to deal with the bank that held my business loan. I knew if I didn’t show my ass to work soon, he would continue to take the brunt of it all and that just wasn’t fair to him.

Good morning, O’Reilly’s Funeral Parlor. Chaz Metzger speaking. How can I help you?

Chaz, I’m sorry. I can’t make it in today. Silence. Look, I promise I’ll be in tomorrow—on time. I know I can’t keep this up.

Quinn, what is it?

I had another one of those nightmares and when I woke up, the lawyer for Matthew’s parents called.

Bastards. Chaz understood how much I suffered from the loss of my partner, and how much harder it was to heal from that loss with the way Matthew’s family was treating me. Look, honey, anything I can do, you name it. I know some people… he said, only half-jokingly.

Yeah. Sometimes there’s a small part of me that entertains that offer, and you and I both know Matthew would be laughing. Still, I can’t even begin to think that way.

Okay, okay. But honey, you have to get a hold of yourself.

I know. I will, I promise.

But my tormented soul wasn’t going to let that happen and I think Chaz sensed it because he said, Quinn. I mean it this time. Mr. Abernathy from the bank has been relentless in his phone calls this week, and I can’t cover for you much longer. I can probably get it by this time, but honey, you have to get back to work. And not just physically.

Chaz?

I believed he could sense the distress from the apprehension in my voice because he asked in a soothing tone, What is it honey?

I heard those voices again, in that dream.

Quinn, did you call that grief counselor yet? You know, the one I gave you the number for weeks ago. I actually felt the sarcasm in his tone.

No. Every time I considered calling, I thought maybe I’d be okay, so I didn’t feel I needed to.

Listen to you. You’re not okay. Quietly, he added, And you know it.

I’ll call...today. I promise. And I’ll be in tomorrow. I promise that too.

Okay. I’ll call you later to see how you’re doing.

Thanks, Chaz. You’re my angel.

Oh, come now. Give me more, he jested.

My knight in shining armor.

Yes, yes, and I would look good in those tights.

You would. And Chaz?

What now?

Really. Thank-you.

No thanks needed, honey. Now, get off the phone and call the therapist. I’ll check in on you later.

Bye. I reclined on the couch and within minutes I was sound asleep. The fatigue from the past months of trying to deal with my grief, the Shikmans’ continual onslaught, and the whispers that kept me awake at night was beginning to take its toll.

***

In here. Here. Here. They were faint at first. I was so deep in my sleep all the whispers could do was touch the boundaries of my unconsciousness. I never will. Here. The whispers were jumbled. Different voices mixed together, trying to speak to me, but I couldn’t discern the difference from one to the other, only that there was more than one. Male? Female? I stirred and rolled over in fitful sleep. Look. Here. Here. Here… Young? Old? My subconscious strained to grab hold of the words. Over there. No. Stay away. This way. Ohhhh!

I sat up. Someone was in the room with me. There had to be. The voices were too close. I could feel their breath on my ear.

Suddenly, I heard a scream. It sounded as if they were in agony. The howl sounded so close, I looked wildly around the room for the source. But who would be screaming in my apartment? It wasn’t me. Or was it? My body tensed with fear, anxiety and confusion.

There was no one in the living room. Did I scream in my sleep? In my dreams? No, it was more like my nightmare.

The phone rang. I jumped and instinctively groped on the end table to find it. I wasn’t sure if I was awake or sleeping until I heard the voice at the other end.

Hey, girlfriend. How are you?

Chaz?

Yes.

Oh, I’m sorry. I just woke up.

No, I’m sorry honey. I didn’t mean to wake you.

It’s okay. What time is it?

Well, it must be five o’clock somewhere because I’m having my after work cocktail.

After work? Oh my God! It can’t be that late.

Girlfriend, I just told you it was five o’clock. Well, actually, it’s five thirty-five.

I said nothing. I quickly looked at the wall clock. I really thought Chaz was joking with me until I saw the time. I felt like I only slept for an hour or so. I was astonished to see I had been asleep for almost eight hours.

Chaz. I slept all day.

Oh. You didn’t call the counselor, did you? I could hear the disappointment all the way through the phone line.

"No I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I guess everything is beginning to catch up to me. I haven’t been sleeping well. I know it’s