Postscript

By Barbara Avon

James squeezed her waist to prove to himself that she was real, and when he spoke, the words matched the love that spilled from his heart; words that would haunt her for all of eternity. "I'm not afraid anymore." 

 

In the Fall of 1985, Jameson Brooks spends his days working for Frank's Moving. At night, he attempts to fill the void of an empty heart with one-night stands, fueled by alcoholic binges. Lina is a dancer, and a lonely spirit. She isn't interested in the advances of the handsome, yet rough bachelor that lives above her. Her demons still follow her. Her abusive husband's ghost lingers, along with that of a very shady newspaper editor. When Lina disappears, love fuels James' drive to discover the truth by using the clue hidden in the note he finds underneath his door. "Postscript" is a ghost story, a love story, and a story that will make you believe. It includes horror elements and flashbacks to the early 1900s in Prohibition Canada. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Avon
• Release date: Oct 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393602811

Book preview

To dance exuberantly, is to free one’s soul.

Traipsing like a mystical fairy.

The seduction lies in slicing the air with our movements, wading through the fog – the mind, leaking memories better forgotten.

As the lights dim,

we die,

and seek sanctum from the pain.

- B.A.

Acknowledgements

Although it would be impossible to compile a complete list, I would like to acknowledge the following people for their support, encouragement, and friendship: Scott Christopher Beebe, Johnny Swanson, Aaron Gould, and Ayal Pinkus. I would like to thank my family for their constant love, and for believing in me. I love you more than simple words can say.

I am eternally thankful for my amazing husband, for being my anchor, self-appointed proof-reader, and for standing by me, through thick and through thin, 888.

A big thank-you goes to each, and every, member of the Writing Community on Twitter, who offer a funny GIF in tough times, and their applause in celebration of the good times.

Finally, my eternal gratitude goes to my readers. Words are my life and sharing my stories with you means everything. This one is for you.

One

September 8, 1985

Faded Levi's sullied an unfamiliar floor. A cigarette burned lazily in an already full ashtray. The walls were covered with images of scantily clad broads leaning over fancy cars. She could hear him in the bathroom whistling The Cure, an ode to their erstwhile tryst.

The single sheet fell from her ample breasts as she leaned over for a nicotine fix. A memory from the night before saturated her foggy brain. He had approached her with the typical pick-up line, feigning interest in her astrological sign, but it was his full lips and dark eyes that caused her to lose all sense of self. With tequila as her guide, she followed him upstairs from the pub, and engaged in an affair that promised little hope for the future. She fell within a dark rift where the other lovelorn resided and she chided herself for succumbing to his advances like some rock band groupie on drugs.

A squeak from the faucet caused her to pull the sheet up to her chin. Jameson Brooks emerged from the bathroom with only a towel draped around his defined waist. He leaned on the doorjamb scratching at his six pack, as if trying to scrub away what was left of her fingerprints.

Boss will have my head if I'm late again.  It was his way of showing her the door.

The come-hither look in her eyes died instantly. Sighing, she threw the sheet off, attempting to claim her consolation prize and lure him one last time by showing him her voluptuous curves, but her ploy went unnoticed. His back was turned as he ruffled through his drawers for his usual work uniform consisting of black jeans, black t-shirt, and a red flannel shirt that was well worn at the elbows.

I had a nice time.

Yeah. Me too, he said, fastening his watch on his wrist.

Giving up, she pulled her jeans over her ass, found her shirt that was hidden halfway underneath the bed, and stuffed her arms through her windbreaker. She twisted her golden hair at the nape of her neck and left the bedroom. He watched as she stood at the front door and slid her heels on her blistered feet with her hand resting on the doorknob, waiting, hopeful, but he failed to send her off with anything more than, See ya. At the sound of a door slamming, he let out his breath, and shook his head.

Damn shots, he mumbled to himself.

James stripped himself of the towel and struggled to put on his pants by dancing around Vaudeville style. His stomach pleaded for a Hungry Man's Breakfast, but he had just enough time for a bite of toast. Wearing only his unbuttoned jeans, he walked to the front door, opened it, and retrieved the morning's paper. Placing it underneath one tattooed arm, he headed towards the small galley kitchen where he threw it on a small, round, Formica table that he salvaged from the junk heap the day he moved in a year earlier. A neighbouring spinster had stared at him from her front porch as he lugged the thing from the curb up to his apartment as if several soirees had been trapped within the table and parting with it was too sweet a sorrow.

At the toaster, he dropped four pieces of whole wheat bread, picked up a package of smokes from the top of the refrigerator and sat down. He lit a Du Maurier and immediately snuffed it out, feeling green around the collar. His hollow belly threatened to turn on him. He had skipped dinner, opting to partake in one beer with his buddies from work. One turned into thousands, and with liquid courage on his breath, he did what any thirty-year old would do and perused the pub as if it were a meat market.

A bird sang its morning song. James slammed the open window next to him, forcing the creature to take flight. He remembered the way he leaned over the pub balcony, serenading the downtown core with his rendition of Purple Rain. What's-her-name had stood next to him, applauding, and cheering like a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader on steroids. A waitress had asked them both to switch to water. James had scoffed and ordered two more shots to prove just what kind of man he was. The flashback made him gag.

He opened the newspaper and cursed as the words swirled together into an illegible mess. Jose Cuervo had won the battle. Shoving it away, he closed his eyes and rubbed at his throbbing temples. There were bright lights behind his lids and music resounded in his ears as if he were still at The Fox. His hands met his ears, but the music only seemed to grow louder. Something resembling song wracked his brain. He stood abruptly and walked aimlessly around the one-bedroom apartment. Empty beer bottles riddled the small space. What's-her-name's hair scrunchie was wrapped around one of the bottles. Her panties were draped over a hallway lamp. In the living room, cassette tapes decorated the floor foreshadowing things to come. In the middle of the room, he felt the floor vibrating beneath the soles of his bare feet. His head spun. His stomach gurgled.

Dammit! Not again!

It was the third time since she had moved in a week ago that she had disturbed the peace. James swung his front door open, stumbled down the stairs and pounded on door number eleven. Classical music failed to soothe the savage beast and he kicked at it, causing him to swear from the pain emitting from one bruised toe.

Hey, you! Open up!

Running his fingers through his thick head of dark, wavy hair, he leaned one hand on her door and tried a more civilized approach. Hello? Can you open the door?

Gravity propelled him forward. He fell to the hardwood and saw a set of perfectly manicured toes in his line of vision. Picking himself up, he ignored the heat rising to his groin at the sight of her standing there in a knee-length black, silk slip.

Stop pounding on my door.

Her long auburn hair was piled messily on top of her head. Her eyes were grey-green, void of make-up – unlike his one-night stand that hid her eyes beneath gobs of black. They shifted to the direction of his navel, causing him to look down at himself and quickly button his jeans.

The music...it's driving me crazy. Do you think you can turn it down a notch?

He squeezed his eyes shut. The tequila had overtaken his senses. She seemed to shimmer before him. He opened them to see that words were dangling on her pink lips, but she merely smiled.

What's funny, lady?

He tried to look past her and caught a glimpse of an empty living room. She stepped forward into the hallway and crossed her slim arms over her chest and he noticed how defined they were, as if she, too, worked at Frank's unloading furniture all day.

Gee, I don't know, she said with a bit of an accent on her tongue. Tit-for-tat, as they say?

Who the hell talks like that? What does that mean?

He couldn't decipher the expression on her face. He was distracted by the highest cheekbones he's ever seen; accented by a touch of natural blush as if his naked torso was something scandalous to behold. 

"Well? What does that mean?"

Apartment Eleven thrust her chest out and clasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer. Oh, James...hurt me, harder. Ooooo, please! Please! she said, mimicking the buxom blonde's voice.

His face reddened and he made a mental note to close his air vents. Yeah, yeah. Okay, I get it.

Yes?

That's what I said.

Good. That's good. James, is it? She smiled sweetly before slamming the door in his face.

Staring at the wood before him, he attempted to find some sort of logic in the markings. The door was as ancient as the heritage building that they called home. Raising his knuckles, he was intent to win back his dignity. He cringed as Mozart blared through her speakers, and while waving the imaginary white flag of surrender, he swore he could hear lyrics behind the symphony, whispering, Tit-for-tat, James.

Two

Frank had done a number on him. He spent the day chugging Cokes as if hoping to find remnants of cocaine from the original recipe. James had been sentenced to haul furniture up five flights of stairs and tried his best not to vomit all over one well-used loveseat covered in questionable stains. The client, a woman in her 50s with three cats, had slipped him a five-dollar bill by inching two fingers into the back pocket of his jeans. Miss Mew, who had taken up permanent residence in the woman's arms had licked his face. The feline was either jealous, or horny.  "I may need some side work,