Adelaide Afraid

By Penny Greenhorn

As an empath, Adelaide Graves has a good reason to be standoffish. People equal emotions and she’d rather do without. But there’s no avoiding her boyfriend, Lucas Finch, whose new temperament is taking some getting used to, or the wealthy, enigmatic Reed Wallace who won’t take no for an answer. But she’s already got her hands full with the legendary lighthouse ghost who’s taken to maiming. Worse, there’s a demon prowling around that can possess people to hide in plain sight. No one on the small island of St. Simons is safe from suspicion. Adelaide’s waiting on pins and needles to see what havoc he’ll wreak. And when someone close to her gets hurt, she knows she’s at fault for calling the demon into this world. Ready to set things right, the disgruntled motel clerk is going to have to face her fears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penny Greenhorn
• Release date: Oct 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370505982

Penny Greenhorn

Penny Greenhorn is a novelist who currently resides in Alaska. When she’s not writing science fiction, fantasy or misanthropes, she can be found off the beaten track with her fuzzy schnauzer, Boods. Her works include the Empath Series, Fiona Frost Trilogy, and a stand-alone urban fantasy, Harbinger. You can find out more about Penny and her twitterpated heroines at pennygreenhorn.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

You have to. Four times a week.

You just made that up, I decided, talking down at my plate. It doesn’t even sound sexy. It sounds like an exercise routine.

I have experience in this area, Francesca reminded me. Three times a week and he’ll probably stick around, but four will render him incapable of a breakup. Remember Edward? He had that business… shipping containers or something? He came for a visit and ended up staying three months. His company almost went belly-up during his absence. I had to cut him loose. She gave me a significant look, the arch in her eyebrow lifting higher.

You didn’t cut him loose. You dumped him because his cash flow was reduced. Not exactly a sacrifice on your part.

Francesca sipped her bloody mary so she didn’t have to answer.

Now that you’re aware of my empathy, I’d like to point out that you have issues. Trust me, I said, imitating her presumptuous manner. I have experience in this area.

She set her drink down on the table. Minute annoyance was displayed in the way the glass landed, clipping out a burst of brittle sound. Even if my empathy disappeared one day, its insight would never go away. I had learned a lot about body language. It expressed emotion better than words. Better than we could even comprehend. For instance, if I told Francesca she was annoyed, she would deny it. Emotions were often so slight they went ignored. They had to or else we’d all go insane. Just like we’d go insane if we stopped to think about everything we saw, heard, or smelled. We tuned out useless senses, and the same was true of emotions.

Go on then, she said. I’ll listen to your advice if you listen to mine.

Because your father was a flake, you think all men are flakes. You don’t trust them. You don’t respect them. You’re dooming yourself to a series of unfulfilling relationships for life, I predicted.

I don’t respect men? Of course that was all she heard. It sounds like you’re calling me sexist.

You are sexist, I agreed, forking scrambled eggs into my mouth. You objectify men all the time.

She scoffed. Please, I’d love for you to tell me what object I’m making them into.

I reached for a napkin, speaking through it as I wiped my mouth. Dollar signs.

They objectify me first! I only amount to a pair of boobs.

I just looked at her.

Fine, she huffed, sorting through her salad. You had your turn, now here’s my advice. Sleep with Lucas four times this week and watch what happens. He’ll treat you differently, you’ll see.

I had no desire to shake things up with Lucas. The curse had been lifted, his emotions returned, and it had been a roller coaster ever since. Too many things were already different.

Francesca’s cynical outlook on relationships colored her opinions. Oddly, it was her favorite topic. But I remained tight-lipped about Lucas despite all the other secrets I told her. That didn’t stop her from bringing him up.

I hope this isn’t the reason she wanted to get together, I thought.

Francesca’s shoulders were pillowed by the fur ruff of her coat. The back of our chairs were draped with scarves and extra layers. It was a cold winter, which had the opposite effect on the island than one might expect. The bigger the blizzards, the higher the snow, the more tourists flocked south like migrating birds. Half the license plates on St. Simons currently read New York or New Jersey. The off-season was never dead.

Brunch had been Francesca’s idea. The restaurant she’d picked was downtown. So even though it was early in the day, the tables were already filling. With a blanket of background chatter, the scraping of forks against white porcelain plates, and a gust of cold air every time the door opened, there was a general busyness about the place. A server passed by, brusque in body, tense in mind. I stuffed the last two pieces of bacon in my mouth, chewing like mad. I could never partake of a leisurely meal in public. A part of me was always rushing to get away.

So what do you want to do for your birthday?

Nothing.

Come on, Francesca wheedled. We have to celebrate.

You just asked me what I want to do. I want to do nothing.

Fine, Francesca sighed. The sound was a lie. On the subject, her emotions weren’t budging, which was probably why she decided to change the subject. I heard something that might interest you. My mother, you know she’s friends with Sharon, and Sharon is Brenda’s sister-in-law, and Brenda works at the lighthouse gift shop.

I didn’t know all that. Is it important?

Francesca leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the table. There was an incident yesterday and the lighthouse shut down. Everyone’s talking about it. The ghost maimed someone.

And last week the island was whispering about what a shame it was that Irene Baker ran away from home, abandoning her husband and kids. She was in Minnesota making funeral arrangements for her dead grandmother.

This is different, Francesca insisted. It’s, like, actual history. There was a lighthouse keeper, Osborne. He had an assistant. I think the assistant was boinking Osborne’s wife, or maybe they fought over a chicken, I don’t remember. Anyway, the assistant shot Osborne. There have been sightings of him ever since. They say you can hear his footsteps going up and down the lighthouse tower.

Mm-hmm. I stabbed at my eggs, still not buying it.

"You see ghosts! How can you be such a cynic?"

I also see how people here gossip. The tourists, I said, glancing around, think it would be a lovely place to live. And it is, but lovely things are only good in small doses, otherwise they cease to be lovely. So in actuality, the people who live here all year round become bored. They have to think up imaginary scenarios to talk about.

I noticed Francesca was staring at me, miffed but impressed. Well, she finally said, the door part is true because Danny saw the paramedics put the limb on ice.

What? Who’s Danny?

See? These are things you’d know if you weren’t too stuck up to listen to gossip, she chastened. The lighthouse was having its windows cleaned, or maybe it was the lens, anyway, the door up there slammed shut on the maintenance guy’s forearm. His whole hand was cut clean off.

Danny saw all that?

Of course not. That’s just it though. The maintenance guy was the only one up there. So who slammed the door?

I could feel her expectation. What are you waiting for? Wasn’t that a rhetorical question?

Aren’t you going to do something? What if the ghost is real?

Then I’m definitely not going. You want me to lose a hand too?

Francesca’s phone chimed. Ugh, she said, looking down at the screen. Conner texted. I thought everyone knew what it meant when you said ‘let’s just be friends,’ but apparently not. He’s so dense.

That hadn’t stopped her from almost marrying him. I was still curious as to why their relationship had ended. Francesca and I weren’t on speaking terms when they broke up. She never explained and she didn’t miss him.

What’s your brother doing? You could’ve brought him along.

He was sleeping when I left, I said. He doesn’t do anything. For a while I considered suggesting he get a job, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If he does get one, he’ll never leave.

You two seem to get along though.

Yeah, August is okay. I just don’t like living with anyone. I was hardly listening to myself. The table next to us was undergoing something unpleasant. I tilted sideways, trying to inch away.

What if you and Lucas work out? Francesca wondered. You’re never going to move in together? You’re just going to keep being neighbors?

The surprise was wearing off. I was sad, then suddenly angry. My eyebrows clapped down like a pair of heavy blinds shading my eyes. I blinked, trying to relax my face. What were we talking about? Lucas!

I shrugged. Maybe, I guess.

What about when you have a family? Oh, right, no for kids. So you're going to live happily ever after in your separate houses, growing old together, just as long as you only see each other in small doses and never have children. Sounds really... Francesca finally noticed my preoccupation and discomfort. She stared at me, then looked around. They’re bothering you, aren’t they?

It’s fine.

You’re practically falling out of your chair. She turned toward the next table over.

Wait! Francesca! I hissed. Don’t—

But she was already getting their attention. The man sat stiffly upright wearing a sweater and slacks. He was clearly uncomfortable and hadn’t touched his food. The woman across from him was wearing a skirt and heels. She dug her toes into the floor as she wiped her eyes.

Excuse me. Yes, hello. Hi, Francesca said. We’re trying to eat here. It’s a little hard when we can hear you crying. Could you maybe deal with whatever relationship woes you're going through somewhere more private?

The man was shocked and affronted, but didn’t know what to say. The woman turned her face away, crying harder into her hands.

Francesca was losing patience. Skip the drama, she said. It’s a lover’s spat, not the end of the world.

I leaned across the table, blocking Francesca’s view with my face. She’s getting fired, I whispered.

* * *

Who fires someone on a Tuesday morning? At a restaurant! I caught the door from Francesca as we headed out onto the sidewalk. She tossed the end of her pashmina scarf over one shoulder. And how did you know they weren’t breaking up? It seemed like a breakup.

They were dressed for work. And… I had to think about it. Sometimes my insights came so instinctively, I couldn’t always pinpoint what had tipped me off. It didn’t feel that personal, I said at last.

Well I’m just glad I could help. Ever since Reed had spilled the beans and forced me into opening up about everything, Francesca had turned weirdly protective. Accosting restaurant patrons on my behalf was not the first time she’d tried to shield me. Her efforts didn’t always pan out.

Thanks for that, but your irritation was stronger than her upset.

Where are you going? Francesca asked as I walked past my car.

Nancy’s, I said, pointing down the street.

I want to come!

I don’t think she’s up for it yet.

She was my psychic first.

Next time, I promised.

Chapter 2

Nancy lived and worked on Mallery Street amid a collision of old and new. Part of the road looked like it used to be residential. Row homes from the early 1900s. Some were brick, others had been redone in stucco or tabby. They were all a bit lifeless with too few windows. And they loomed over you, boxy, plain, all the same, their exterior seeming to toe the road. The storefronts did their best to stand out, a tricky task as the buildings shared common walls, quite literally pressed together. But some had whimsical signs. Others bright colors. Lively they were not, but they carried their own small-town charm.

The Parlor was locked. I knocked for two minutes straight before Nancy opened the door. Her hair was always puffing up like a perm that had been brushed, but today the roots were oily, almost wet looking. As she shifted to let me in, I noticed a strange part on the side of her head, hair turning awkwardly where the scalp peeped out.

Just get out of bed?

She made a noise in her throat. A weary, dredged up sound.

The shop was a bit eerie, the gloom meant to subdue clients into a somber state. I didn’t think the spider was intentional though. I noticed its gauzy web bunched in a corner over the floor. Dead gnats were piling up under it.

Nancy’s apartment was dark, the curtains still drawn. She didn’t turn on a light, not even when we entered the kitchen.

Have you been feeding your cat?

Hmm? Nancy answered, needing a moment to catch up. Petra? Yes. She glanced around, feeling a bit bewildered.

This is when you usually offer me tea, I said.

Did you want some?

You’re probably out. The bottom of the sink was filled with moldy, damp bags. I came for a reading.

Now’s not the best time, she listlessly said. I’m not feeling up to it.

I don’t know if Eclipsys told you yet, but rumor has it, there’s a ghost in the lighthouse.

Frederick Osborne.

You’ve heard of him? I was a little surprised. I hadn’t believed Francesca’s story. I was just using it as an excuse to get Nancy in working order. Apparently he’s become bloodthirsty. Someone lost a hand. They’re saying the ghost did it.

Tired, resigned, Nancy said, I’ll get my cards. It was for a good cause. I knew she wouldn't be able to resist.

When she left, I flipped on the light switch. I considered turning it off again. The counter hadn’t been cleared in a week. Her cat was lying among the dishes, tail thwacking through some crumbs.

Nancy shuffled in holding a stack of cards, all of which appeared to come from different decks. She sank into a chair at the kitchen table. I settled in after her, quickly growing disappointed. Nancy wasn’t putting in much of an effort. She just spread the pile around in one lazy gesture. The cards inched outward, nudging a dirty hand towel off the table. It landed on the floor. A spoon clattered after it. Nancy didn’t notice. She poked through, flipping a card here or there, sometimes spinning them sideways. Her interest gave a mild stir. I was glad to feel anything other than her stifling dispirit.

I see something.

Is there a ghost? Is it really Frederick Osborne?

Yes. Something’s disturbed him.

Is he going to keep lashing out?

She frowned down at the cards, bending lower. I don’t know. That’s all I see.

Damn.

Sorry. She slowly gathered the cards.

It's not you, I told her. For once I got a straight answer. I was just hoping it wasn’t true so I didn’t have to get involved.

She glanced around, looking for a place to dump the cards. She wanted them out of sight. You don’t have to get involved. You shouldn’t.

What? I was taken by surprise. I knew she was going through something, but up until that moment I hadn’t been worried. Aren’t you always telling me Percy wanted me to have his gift for a reason? That it was meant for me? That I’m supposed to use it?

I shouldn’t have given you his ring, she said, stuffing the cards into a drawer.

What! Now she was scaring me.

It was wrong of me to encourage you. I didn’t understand the risks that our gifts bring. They draw out the worst in people. The last thing I want is to see you in another dangerous situation. Be careful, Adelaide, she told me. Steer clear of the lighthouse.

Nancy—

I’m tired, she said abruptly. Visit me some other time. I’ll be better company.

I didn’t believe her. She’d been saying that for months.

* * *

Sterling’s Motel had been constructed in the ‘60s or ‘70s; it was hard to tell which. The original sign was still standing on the edge of the lot. MOTEL was written in neon letters that no longer lit up, though the faded red bulbs were still there. And if that wasn’t enough to tip you off that Sterling’s was past its prime, the little stars on the sign that looked more like skinny diamonds or weird crosses would send you back in time. You’d start thinking of roller skating rinks, tupperware and lava lamps.

Sterling’s was so old that the original road it was built along had sort of gone extinct. Ben, the owner, said the Department of Transportation had bought up land to add a wider corridor. It ended up being good for business because it ran parallel with the L-shaped building and offered more passing traffic. So the old sign was on the wrong corner, advertising to an overgrown mound that separated us from the derelict road and a few houses that hadn’t been able to keep up. Compared to them, Sterling’s was clearly made of sterner stuff. It managed to adapt and survive without really changing.

I worked behind the front desk in the building’s corner room. It had been converted into a small office. There were two wingback chairs, a coffee table, and potted plant by the door. We used to serve coffee, but someone had spilled on the carpet and Ben decided that was the end of that.

The high counter cut the room in two, making the desk area naturally off-limits. The room’s original bathroom was back there. Ben had replaced the shower with a washer and dryer. Above them were shelves for storage. I often wondered if there was a health code we didn’t know about, something that specifically said: Don’t go to the bathroom by the towels you pass out.

I was on time today, walking in at one o’clock on the dot. This annoyed my boss. Ben had been hoping for a reason to take me to task. He sat behind the front desk looking as harried as he felt. A lot of people tried to mask their darker emotions. Not Ben. When the door dinged open, brushing against the hanging bell, he glared in my direction.

Piece of shit, he said, slapping the boxy beige monitor. For once he wasn’t talking to me. I could see the screen as I moved around behind the desk. It cut in and out, the image looking pixelated and wonky.

It’s broken! he said, slapping it some more.

Can’t say I’m surprised. It’s a ‘90s relic. When I first started working at Sterling’s, I had convinced Ben to switch from dial-up. Beyond that, he wasn’t budging. I lifted the strap of my messenger bag over my head and lowered it to the floor. Ben was jiggling the mouse, banging the keyboard, and swearing.

It’s probably not that, I said when he went back to attacking the monitor.

Then what is it?

The computer.

Computer? What do you think this is!

That’s not the computer. The computer’s down there. I pointed under the desk.

Ben stared at the matching upright box. His anger was momentarily stanched as he tried to sort out how the two machines went together. A few seconds later his rage lit like a match, the flame fueled by his own ignorance. Damned pieces of shit!

I’ll ask Stephen to look at them when he gets here.

I’m not replacing it! Ben snarled.

It’s not a cast iron skillet. Computers need to be upgraded.

The door was pushed open, jingling the bell as it let in a waft of cold air. A woman stomped her feet on the mat before coming in. As there was no snow, I assumed the gesture was some sort of habit.

Ben’s head sank down. He shook the mouse again, staring away from her.

Hello! She dragged her suitcase by the extended handle, wheeling it to the counter.

Our computer’s down. We only take cash right now.

That’s fine, she told me. She set her purse on the counter, letting her hands run along the cheap laminate. She smiled at me expectantly. Her lips were wide and rubbery, reminding me of the Grinch. She had long puffy cheeks too. They dragged down her face and padded her jaw so even though she wasn’t, she kind of looked heavy. Her eyes were beady, buried as they were. Her nose was pinched as well, crinkling at the bridge where it strained under the weight of those smiling cheeks.

I won’t be able to give you a printed receipt.

She touched her hair, patting the manufactured curls. I don’t mind.

I made one last ditch attempt. We don’t have any smoking units available.

I’m a grandmother, she said. You won’t catch me doing that.

Fine. She obviously wasn’t going away. How long do you plan on staying? I reached for a key. It was for the room at the end of the strip, far away from me as she could get. I saved it for moments like this.

Oh, I don’t know yet. I’m visiting my daughter. She just had a baby.

First grandchild?

Yes! How did you guess?

She was ecstatic. Being here was a treat for her, like everything was new and exciting. Lucky for me, rapture was unsustainable. I just had to wait it out. Eventually the feeling would wear off. Just a guess, I said, reaching for a pen.

She invited me to stay with her, the woman chatted. But my daughter lives in a small place. So I’m giving her space. It’s a tough time, just back from the hospital. Don’t want to step on any toes, you know?

Not really, I said, punching buttons on the calculator. My mother managed to stifle me from five hundred miles away. She was doing her best to be understanding, but after I had failed to show up for the holidays, well, now she was pissed. And she would call every so often to remind me. I need to see your license.

The woman passed it over. I took down the information, learning her name was Able Hayes. She was from some rural part of Georgia. I could tell before reading her address. The accent gave her away.

Able toyed with the buckle on her wallet. She couldn’t stop fingering things. It was the excitement bubbling up; it tended to make one fidget.

I passed her license back. We exchanged cash. I scribbled out an impromptu contract which she signed, followed by a handwritten receipt. You’re all set, I finally told her.

Do you serve a complimentary breakfast? she asked while snapping her wallet shut.

Breakfast! Ben finally looked up, resentful at the question.

Never mind, she demurred.

We watched, waiting silently for her to leave. The bell