Ghost Story: The Road Home: Ghost Story, #1

By Jason Stokes

Justin has seen the dead since he was nine years old.

Now at twenty-six, he's discovering the rules between their world and his aren't the same as they've always been. Devastated by tragedy and haunted by his past, he sets off on a cross country mission with Whitney, his only friend, to find the one person who can tell him who and what he really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Stokes
• Release date: Oct 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733735568

Book preview

Gestalt Media

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Jason Stokes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. All song lyrics used within are believed to fall within fair use. For more information, address:

[e-mail]

First paperback edition October 2019

Edited by: Rachael Sparks

Cover Design by: Lindy Martin

ISBN 978-1-7337355-5-1 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-951535-04-9 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-7337355-6-8 (ebook)

www.Gestalt-Media.com

For my father. I hope you can see this.

Author’s Note

This novel took ten years to write. It was a labor of love that took more time to blossom than I wanted to give it but we do not control these things. It has been rattling around for almost as long as I’ve been writing seriously. Loosely based on true experiences while living in Norfolk, Virginia it is my deepest honor to share this story with you. I hope it’s as enjoyable for you as it has been for me writing it.

Suggested Playlist:

Megalodon – Big Something

Here I Go Again – Whitesnake

Destination Unknown – Alex Gaudino ft. Crystal Waters

Promised Land – Elvis Presley

The Mountains Win Again – Blues Traveler

Midnight in Montgomery – Alan Jackson

I’m in Miami Bitch – LMFAO

Kryptonite – 3 Doors Down

Jambalya – Hank Williams Sr.

California Love – 2Pac ft. Dr. Dre

Mama I’m Coming Home – Ozzy Osbourne

(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life – Dirty Dancing

East Bound and Down – Jerry Reed

Chapter 1

Blood on the sheets again. Justin rolled, pillow clutched to his chest. The one beside him identical aside from the spray pattern of deep red, light pink around the edges, spreading to the fibers. High thread counts excelled at soaking up puddles that formed in the creases.

The sheets fared worse. A red to rust-brown Rorschach pattern pooled in the indentation where a body should be. A body that was missing but not far. Weak morning light that crept around the edges of drawn curtains confirmed his opinion; it was still too early for this shit.

But life and death were impatient. Precious moments of blissful haze were already fading fast into the screaming horror of reality. Maybe it was just his head that was screaming. A migraine like an ice pick to the skull forced him to squeeze shut his eyelids, retinas burning and unready for the morning light, no doubt bloodshot. Gradually they opened, adjusting as needed. Sore, he turned his head from the window, not yet able to move the rest of his body.

The air was cool on his skin, raising goosebumps up and down cold exposed flesh. At some point in the night he had kicked off the covers, a pile gathered at the end of the bed. The exposure allowed a stiffness like rigor mortis to settle deep in the muscle tissue. He hadn’t noticed, in a darkness too deep for even dreams to find. Or if they had, they had been unable to escape the depths because he had no memory of them. On the cusp of winter, it was too cool at night for the window unit in the other room and too warm in the day for the ancient baseboard coils that turned the small apartment into an oven. Lacking either, the chill of coastal winds heavy with moisture had crept through the cracked window overnight. Winds whose cold bit the skin, sending emissaries to seek out nerve endings buried deep within for the kiss of oncoming winter. But it was still September and their threats were short-lived, evaporating by mid-afternoon, leaving only the mornings to suffer through promises for now empty.

Only slightly warmer than a cadaver and half as stiff, he swung his legs over, touched the cool bare floor and started the awkward seizure dance of muscles left too long unused. Bones popped and tendons snapped into place. He was awake for better or worse, but his mind, still hazy, refused to give up its hold on the memories lingering just below the surface. Like fog on a dark sea, bits and pieces of the wreckage came into view as clouds lifted, but the full picture never materialized. Whatever it was would have to wait. The urge to piss took precedence over all other functions.

He danced back and forth on the black and white tiles of the bathroom floor, older possibly than the heaters. Once the stream began, relief came and he relaxed, braced on the wall, letting the bubbling sound of nature create a soothing background. The shower curtain was closed. He hadn't failed to notice that. Whether he closed it or not was uncertain, lost in the empty space where last night should reside. He was appreciative that certain barriers, even vinyl ones, made it possible to ignore inconveniences of his lifestyle. This ten dollar one from a local home store allowed precious moments to pretend everything was normal, that today was just like any other. He was truly grateful for those moments, often too short-lived. Finishing up, he kicked his shorts to the side, flushed and grasped the curtain.

No time like the present. 

She was there, where he expected her. She always was. Fish-white flesh huddled in the bottom, criss-crossed with a pattern of cuts and streaks of red matching the sheets in both color and type. Some of the cuts were deeper. Most were shallow, superficial. The way self-inflicted wounds tend to be, or defensive marks, he wasn’t sure which. Her eyes were hollow white marbles, focused on an indeterminable point near the ceiling, legs bent, stuffed into the awkward space. Her arms were a hash mark pattern of scratches and lacerations and fell to her sides, hands tucked beneath the flesh of her buttocks.

He leaned over the body, turning on the water hot tap first until it started to steam. Ignoring the woman, he found himself watching pink streams emerge from under the body, collide and rush towards the drain. Eventually humidity filled the air, obscuring the scene. It brought new life as the embrace of heat woke the senses, revitalized him from within, helped him think clearly. Careful not to touch the long limbs taking up nearly all the space, Justin stepped in, took a spot under the water and closed his eyes. He soaked up the life-giving warmth, feeling hot rivers trace down his back, igniting nerves numb to the world. As the temperature equalized, the fog in his brain began to dissipate. The pummeling of the shower head was like a deep tissue massage that freed the stress of a night spent in awkward positions, that encouraged blood flow within the confines of veins dehydrated and slow from alcohol.

The drinks he remembered. Beer at first and then the whiskey, untouched since moving in, had soon taken over. He had toasted himself with the first shot, then drunk the rest from the bottle. A celebration of absurdity in an empty house. By the time the crowds downtown were in full swing, he was carrying the bottle by the neck, pacing the apartment, music on the TV turned too loud to hear complaints from the neighbors. Eventually the songs bled into poorly played renditions of Zeppelin and Nirvana on a battered Gibson plugged into a cheap amp. His mouth tasted like ash, which meant cheap cigars from the corner store. The evidence would be found in little piles on the kitchen counter, the coffee table, on the floor. He didn’t remember going out but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Somehow no one had filed a complaint, called the cops to break it up, or had they? He couldn’t recall. Scrubbing his face with wet hands, he made a mental note to apologize to the neighbors he still spoke to on occasion as soon as it was convenient. It was a promise he wouldn’t keep. Much easier to ignore their pointed glares for a few weeks until everything went back to normal.

Perhaps he had been the only one home on a colder-than-average Thursday night in early September. Maybe no one even noticed. It would fit the theme. Despite the spontaneous grandeur, and grand it was, his was a party of one. The woman he had shared a bed with was not someone he had brought home in a drunken stupor. She was neither invited nor welcome, but she was there. As always.

He massaged in a healthy lather of tea tree shampoo, a gift that made his scalp tingle and brought his brain to life. The penetrating aroma cleared sinuses congested with smoke and bad decisions. It was one of the few self-care rituals he indulged. In an otherwise sparse existence, this one thing was a luxury by comparison. The little things were what made life worth living. The ones you could return to and focus on when the big picture became a little too difficult to look at. Taking in the scent, he allowed himself to be only in that moment, letting it ride for as long as the moment would last. Eyes closed, he didn’t notice the arm move or the spindly blue fingers slide from under the body. Rinsing suds from his black matted curls, he couldn’t see the first glint of metal flash across tile. When the water ran clean enough to open his eyes, the astringent sting of tea tree oil still burning their edges, the arm was raised, an unfamiliar blade arcing through the air.

He jerked, tried to jump back. He was not quick enough. A six-inch kitchen knife swung low, passed through one bare thigh, across his groin and came to a stop midway through the other. The menace was evident even in empty soulless eyes while he gaped at the smooth, undamaged flesh where only the hilt protruded. She had never done that before and he chastised himself for being caught off guard, for flinching. Showing fear only seemed to encourage them. Which was why, despite the shiver of adrenaline that snaked its way through his body, he rinsed off, casual, careful to pay no attention to a pounding heart. When the last of the suds tinged with barely noticeable pink washed down the drain, she was gone. But not far.

She was never far in a two-room apartment, its narrow kitchen tacked on like an afterthought, but he used the moment alone to gather himself. He breathed the heavily scented air, slung water in the now empty shower and reached for the towel. When he opened the curtain, she was waiting.

It was routine. Not daily, thank God, but often enough he had grown almost comfortable with it. Almost. Occupying her space in the corner, blocking the only doorway, she watched while he toweled off, offering no inclination towards his nakedness or the fact that he was alive. Only an ambient, simmering hatred that seemed to emanate wherever she went. Or maybe he was projecting that because of her wounds.

She watched like a bird on a window, emotionless, influenced only by the nature of being.

Her almost solid-white eyes showed a hint of color, a pale blue circle that was unnoticeable under most conditions. They darted, flickered, unwilling to settle on one thing. Her mouth never moved, paralyzed perhaps, or her vocal chords severed by one of the deep wounds around her throat.

She dripped, tinted water running from hair that was a tangle of blond and stringy weeds. Narrow rivers snaked across her body, diverted where new openings had been made. They traveled down her chest, arms and legs, found fingers and elbows, where rivulets fell like silent raindrops, succumbing to whatever gravity existed in her world. They never arrived, the tile at her feet dry as bone.

She liked to watch and he could think of no way to stop her, so he shaved quickly, avoiding the mirror and her grotesque reflection over his shoulder. It meant he maintained a patchwork of stubble on his chin that did nothing to attract women who weren’t already dead.

He dressed and brushed his teeth in the bedroom, going out of his way to ignore the figure lingering in the doorway. He hoped with the lack of attention she would get bored and wander off. It rarely worked that way. She stayed close, tethered somehow to that space, rarely venturing to other rooms and never for long. Her presence, felt everywhere within the apartment, the reason he shunned company. Or one of them.

Justin Thomas was not a people person. It was exhausting, making plans and maintaining close bonds that only led to more plans, more people. Alone was easier, far from the trivialities of normal life. Expectations were low. He liked that. As a life plan, hiding from your problems in bed or a bottle was far from ideal, but it had worked for his early twenties and looked good for another year or two, at least.

Chronic anti-socialism aside, long hours and overtime left little room for a social life. It meant rarely having two days off in a row and being permanently exhausted. It was rare he even knew exactly what day it was. Which was one of the many reasons for the bottle of pills on the table, untouched since earlier in the week. Z-somethings. He stared at the white printed label, working up the desire to slip on his shoes, button the last clean shirt and go down stairs. Take one by mouth twice a day. They were supposed to treat bipolar depression, which he didn’t have. What he did have was more complicated and probably not easily managed with pills, not these anyway. But they managed to keep the unwanted visitors to a minimum. When he took them, he got some sleep. He got too much, wandering half-awake and aimless through life. The cure, he found, was worse than the disease.

His shoes waited, untied, one turned on its side at his feet. His head pounded. The hangover was not going quietly. The tension-easing effects of the shower were fading fast, energy levels close behind. Already exhausted and it wasn’t even nine a.m.

The cubicle farm in Chesapeake was a massive beast large enough to park a 747. Five hundred employees fielded calls for service and repair on a range of brand name electronics. The job matched his skillset, required little thought and provided security long term. He was a face in the crowd, another bee in the hive. And today, they would get along without him.

He opted for a t-shirt and jeans instead of the button-down, slid on some tennis shoes and pocketed his wallet and keys. Today already promised to be a real motherfucker.

But first, coffee.

Chapter 2

He didn't own a coffee maker. Too expensive with a store around the corner and a pod-style maker at the office. Notwithstanding that one store bought cup equaled five — or maybe ten — made at home, he enjoyed the walk. It was an opportunity to clear a cluttered head, to be alone for five minutes, if he took his time. Open twenty-four hours with the ever-present aroma of freshly brewed coffee, it was a haven in the unlikeliest of places. On Thursdays they had donuts, fresh delicious donuts. Even day-old, they would be decent. On special occasions, he allowed himself a cappuccino from the machine with the French Vanilla creamer that was so good it flirted with the real thing. Today felt like a cappuccino day.

Outside, the air was chilled but warming as sunlight filtered through breaks in the trees. It was enough to speak to a promise but not ready to deliver. Two- and three-story colonial-style buildings lined both sides of the shaded park sized median, keeping the sidewalks closest to their structures in shade, thawing last. He walked in the grass instead, grabbing snatches of warmth where he could. Even in the light he could see his breath as faint smoke that dissipated quickly.

Old-growth trees cast a net of tangled branches above. Looming, heavy and bent, they dipped low, dangling moss from crooked tips. Sentinels of a past long forgotten, they were protected by committees dedicated to preserving the heritage of the area. Justin liked them. They were a reminder that sometimes history could be imposing and difficult to look at.

Walking the median was a habit with the benefit of providing distance from the huddled figures that roamed the sidewalks, waiting for the soup kitchen to open at a church on the corner. Justin was generous whenever possible but some of the disenfranchised, too long on the street, became dangerous, and others weren't what they appeared at all. Impossible to tell the difference, he kept his distance, head low, pushing forward. 

The parking lot was full when he arrived. He stepped up the curb, skirting a man in tattered clothes with a cardboard sign. Justin nodded, receiving a smile missing most of its teeth. The clothes looked dated, late sixties maybe. 

At a brisk trot, he passed between a work truck with rusted-out fenders and a shiny black BMW with tinted windows. The pair of vehicles were a picture of the dichotomy that existed on the edge of these neighborhoods, a melting pot that mixed frequently, aware of the other side still turning a blind eye. The reminders were there but people had found ways to ignore them, focused on their own affairs. 

Gloria greeted him with a wide grin and a wave of heavy gold-plated jewelry that hung from thick wrists. A line six-deep waited for her to finish ringing them up so they could make their way to the interstate and jobs they were already late for.

Pressed slacks mingled with dirty work boots ahead of a screaming child tugging on a tired-looking woman's arm. He skirted the crowd, found the coffee maker in the back. The sticker read Fresh Coffee. On slow days, he'd seen the pot from the morning still simmering on the hot burner well into the afternoon, the contents reduced to a thick black sludge. On busy days, the brewer ran non-stop, filling the air with the scent of new coffee. The heavy aroma mixed with roller dogs turning on their greasy wheels and the ever-present hint of bleach, used to wipe down the chrome counter tops. If not pleasant, it was at least familiar.

He took his time, retrieving a frothy mixture of scalding hot water and brown liquid from the machine, shot through with cream and topped with a thin plastic lid. It smelled divine and worth risking a serious burn to sneak a sip, but experience cautioned otherwise. Better to still be able to taste it later. Grabbing a few more items, a soda and a gooey marshmallow treat in a foil wrapper, he took his place in line.

Gloria was everything her name suggested, a ray of sunshine regardless of the weather or conditions in the store. He had never seen her fail to have a big smile and a positive attitude. It was an affectation that even today rubbed off a little. She was a big woman, with an accent too thick for Virginia. He guessed Mississippi.

Hey baby. How you doin’?

He managed a weak grin and a nod.

I'm alive, he said.

We're all alive, she said.

Good thing, cause if I was dead and had to come to work today. She paused and stared him down to show what an awful situation that would be. He managed a laugh at the absurdity.

I think I'd take the day off in that case, he said.

You look like you need to take today off. What happen, you stay out too late?

She hit the total while he retrieved a debit card, thought better of it and handed over cash.

Had a few, he said. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere today.

If that's a few, she said, handing him his change, a lot might kill you. 

I'll be careful, he said and left with a tingle of the little bell over the door.

The parking lot was empty. If Gloria drove, she didn't park in front of the store. The other vehicles would be on their way to work. Boots would have security clearance, spend the day unloading at the docks by the shipyard. The suit would sit in an office downtown, overlooking the city or take the highway to one of the pockets of commercialization that filled the seven cities. Neither would win enough on the scratch-offs they bought with their coffee to keep them from coming back tomorrow.

He crossed the lot, passing the man still sitting under the shade of an old tree. Without looking, he grabbed the change from his pocket and let it fall into the cup at the man's feet. He expected to hear the jangle of coins on concrete, rolling across cracked pavement. Instead they landed with a hollow thunk in the paper cup. The bills made no sound at all. He paused, looked back. 

Justin retrieved the soda, set it beside the cup. 

Have a good one, he said.

The man winked and wiped his nose, offering the same gap-toothed grin.

The pills were supposed to help with anxiety. Sitting on the sofa, staring down the bottle, sipping still-warm coffee, it was ironic that their presence made him nervous. He could feel the coil in his chest tightening, constricting around his heart and lungs. The orange bottle with his name on the side taunted him until he slapped it, watched it roll off the table, clatter to the floor and disappear under a chair. He felt better as soon as they were out of sight, the tension releasing in segments. The pills made them harder to see but it took a piece of him with them, a piece he needed to function.

Good riddance, he muttered under his breath.

In the other room a figure passed by the window, a silhouette from the corner of his vision that crawled into bed and disappeared into blood-stained sheets.

Chapter 3

It had grown dark by the time rush hour settled on the city. On a quiet side street, traffic was light until the hours before dusk, when a flurry of activity overtook the neighborhood. The slam of car doors in driveways, voices too jumbled to hear, echoed off the close buildings and drifted in through the still-open windows. At regular intervals the metal door to the apartment building would swing open on hinges that badly needed oil, then slam shut again. Footsteps in the stairwell of the empty hall, then another door, the clink of metal as deadbolts slid into place. He managed to tune most of it out, the universal background of life in the city. It was something you were aware of but barely noticed after months or years of the same routine.

Stretched across the couch, his body sunk into all three cushions that gradually conformed to his shape. An empty plate and two bottles on the floor represented both lunch and dinner. The two-thirds empty beer bottle he had overlooked the night before he grabbed, drained the last of the watery suds and set it back down with a clink.

A persistent blue flash on his phone, stuck between couch cushions, told him someone was trying to make contact. He knew who it was. Only one person would try to reach him, even today. He made a mental note to call her back. In the hall, the door slammed again. Someone coming in or going out. He turned up the TV.

The lights were off, not necessary for the binge session he was engaged in. Plus it made the hangover that lingered like the ghost of bad decisions easier to handle. The apartment had grown darker by the hour until it felt like a cave since sometime after noon when he found The Twilight Zone doing an all-day run. No need to pay attention since he knew them all by heart. The Labor Day Marathon had been a tradition since childhood. One he rarely missed. The comforting tones of Rod Serling’s voice made it easy to space out and drift off to sleep now and then. 

Somehow he knew that his father had liked the show also, even though he had no memory of them watching it together. Which meant it had be information he picked up from his mother. More than likely in snippets of overheard conversation not meant for young ears. 

A proud woman, she wasn't the kind to openly talk about the man that had left her on her own with no explanation and a young boy to raise. Also bitter and cynical, she couldn't resist the opportunity to gossip, or backbite in certain company about the man's many shortcomings. Justin didn't remember a lot about his father and what he could was a mixture of vague memories, confused emotions and dubious inference. Without a reliable source for information, he had long ago decided that, whoever the man was, it was a mystery that would likely go unsolved.

He rolled, shifted his weight. There were other things in life to worry about than why a family couldn't keep its shit together, and bigger questions as well.

He didn't have a chance to consider what they might be when three raps at the door interrupted his concentration. A pair of shadows shifted in the space along the floorboards. He waited, hoped they would go away on their own. When his phone lit up, he pulled it from its hiding place and winced at the screen. He sat up quickly, making lame attempts to look presentable, and hit the answer button. 

Hello?

Guilt stung like a blade to the side when she spoke. You going to let me in or what? came the impatient answer.

It's open, he said. The huff he could hear even though the call had ended. She came in with the phone in one hand, wagging it at him.

Really?

Screening my calls, he offered weakly.

Fresh from the office, Whitney still looked semi-professional. Her dark black hair pulled back from its normally wild and frizzy state, a top that revealed shoulders and smooth dark skin with a glow of its own and shoes that clicked when she walked. Whitney and Justin worked in the same office, of course she had noticed he was missing. More importantly, they were friends. At times she was all he had, and that more than anything explained why he wasn't answering her calls.

She crossed the room and took a seat at an angle to him on the chair while he pretended not to watch. Blowing off her frustration easily, she leaned in and searched him for damage, physical or otherwise.

You alright? she asked.

The contrast in their appearance made him uncomfortable. Justin swiped at crumbs settled in the creases of his shirt that was now more wrinkle than cotton.

Fine, he lied. Took the day off.

She knew him well and wasn't buying the easy explanation.

Sorry, I meant to call. Hope you didn't worry, he offered.

Thought you were dead, she said flatly. Other than that, no worries at all. Seriously, everything is okay?

His conscience made him squirm. He opened his mouth, stopped, sighed instead. Whitney knew more about him than anyone, listened more than anyone. She knew why he took the pills — well, some of it — and that the stress of life could sometimes drive him into a dark corner of seclusion. At those times she had a tendency to come over with take-out and beers. They would watch a movie and just let their company be enough. He thought she looked forward to it as well. An opportunity to escape into the world they had made for themselves. No expectations. No explanations needed. Now he had broken the cardinal rule. He had shut her out. 

Are you sick? she asked.

Yeah but it's not contagious, he said. Until now, avoiding conversations about childhood trauma had been easy enough but this would be difficult to explain.

I don't understand. 

I'm okay, he said and gathered the plate and bottles from the floor, carrying them to the kitchen. He took the opportunity to kick the orange bottle, sending it further into darkness.

You seem like it. It's pitch dark in here.

He heard the lamp on the end table come on as he dropped the trash in an overflowing bin and brushed the last of the crumbs on top of the pile.

Just needed a day off, he said.

When he returned, her mouth moved to the side, eyes narrow. Dubious.

Call it a . . . mental health day. Wrong words.

Tell me what's going on. She shifted. You can trust me.

He took a seat on the edge of the cushion.

It's nothing, he insisted.

You didn't answer your phone. 

Sorry, he said.

For two days. That's not like you.

Again, sorry.

He knew where this was headed and decided to head it off at the pass. It had been three days since his last dose but that had nothing to do with his sudden desire to withdraw from society. No way to avoid it. He sighed.

It's my birthday, he confessed.

She blinked, cocked