Unnoticed: A Paranormal Thriller, #2

By Joyce Freese

What would you risk for Love or Success?

As the storm approached, the wind's shrill growled. He turned the corner into the deserted neighborhood. A single car was parked in front of the luxury home. Its magnetic realtor sign hung crookedly on the car's door. On the front lawn, the Open House sign, a victim of the wind, lay on its back. Interior lights still beckoned him. Stealthily approached the front door. "I hope I'm not too late." Extended his hand. She waved her hand for him to follow.  Reached his hand behind his back and touched the cold dead bolt. Softly, clicked the lock shut. In this

 

A Paranormal Thriller:  Our deepest desires are tested against a backdrop of deceit. Victoria, a realtor focused on success, ignores clues that suggest her newly acquired buyer, Peter, may be a serial killer. Peter, obsessed with Victoria, will do anything to gain her love. The home itself, now abandoned and with its own history of violence, attempts to warn Victoria as different dimensions of reality coexist, intertwined in a web of violence that could result in life or death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Callie Shay Publishing
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201477547

Joyce Freese

I have always been a writer. At first, it was with an old-fashioned typewriter. Then, the Internet answered my dreams with Microsoft Word. I could now write faster and with convenience, all with spell check, a blessing for one who can't spell. Through writing, be it fiction or non-fiction, I found my voice and myself. I do not have enough lifetimes to write all the books I imagine. My Paranormal Thriller Series began when I sold a home that previously had been a funeral home. Upon crossing the threshold of any home, I feel an energy surge of those who have occupied the home, past and present. This quick surge of energy leaves its mark on me. I always thought that every Realtor felt this same electrical jolt. However, when I took a quick survey of all my Realtor friends, they looked at me like I was crazy. It  never happened to them, yet, it happens to me every time. Perhaps that is why I believe that Every Home has Its Own Secrets. Have you ever walked into a home and felt a sudden cold chill as if someone unseen breathed on the back of your neck? Or perhaps felt the silence that echoed a stillness known only to death? I have. All homes store their own private memories. Sometimes loving comfort or depressed sadness lingers. Other times, a collective numbness or lethargy exists. Occasionally, red hot anger can take your breath away. Even as its inhabitants change or depart, their experiences remain. Each person and event leaves an individual mark. This energy remains within its walls. Nothing is ever forgotten. Both In a Time of Smallpox Death Arrives and Unnoticed capture the energy of its occupants within its walls.

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Joyce Freese

Copyright © 2018 Joyce Freese

All Rights Reserved

Breathing iced air , he turned the heater to full throttle. Cold air blasted. Blew on his fingers as his hot breath warmed his hands. Momentarily saw his fogged breath. Regretted forgetting his gloves. No time.

As the storm approached, the wind’s shrill became a low growl. He turned the corner into the deserted neighborhood. A single car was parked in front of the expansive home. Its magnetic realtor sign hung crookedly on the car’s door. On the front lawn, the Open House sign, a victim of the wind, laid on its back. Interior lights still beckoned him.

Carefully approaching the front door, he momentarily lost his balance as he slipped on the newly formed film of ice on the front stairs. Rang the doorbell. Waited.

The front door burst open, sucking in wild pellets of rain and snow. She momentary paused as her eyes cautiously met his.

He slightly stuttered, I s-saw your s-sign. I hope I’m not t-too late. Extended his hand.

I was just locking up, she replied, still tightly grasping the door handle. Paused again. Momentarily hesitated.

But since you’re here, I’d be happy to show you the home. You’re my only visitor today. Smiled gratefully.

He stammered, M-must be my l-lucky d-day, as he stepped into the foyer.

The wind caught the door. Ripped the handle from her hand. Slammed it shut.

I have a lovely brochure of the home. It’s in the living room.

She waved her hand for him to follow. Her stilettos tapped rapidly on the hardwood floor as she marched to the other room. He stealthily reached his hand behind his back and touched the cold dead bolt. Softly, clicked the lock shut.

Snow swirled violently as the police car raced down the frozen road. Its siren screamed. Overhead lights of red and blue blinked wildly and flickered in the white background. Joined two other police cars. Bloody handprints on the virgin white canvas formed a trail to a snow-covered mass. Red stains wicked to the top.

Hunching over, the policeman pushed the snow off the top of the mass. Frozen eyes stared back at him. He looked at his young partner.

Looks like another one. This one still has her name badge on. Shook his head. Lucky for us.

Still horrified after twenty years in the force. Temporarily paralyzed, his eyes stayed locked on her face.

Second one this month. Easy prey, Realtors.  Waved his partner for help.

Better wrap up before the storm hits. That wall of white will cover everything in no time. First snow can fool you.

Visibility lessened as the blizzard approached. Frozen snow slapped their faces with abrasive intensity. Freezing ice entombed their cars as the wind howled.

MY CAR TWISTED THROUGH the narrow street dwarfed by tall evergreens, maples, oaks and a few birches. As if shaken by some invisible hand, the last leaves of the season rapidly fell to the ground. Occasional rooftops peeked through the heavy foliage.

Raindrops turned into a streaming river of ice on my windshield, giving me only short glimpses of what was before me. The wipers could hardly keep up. Between swipes, I searched for the address. Pounding raindrops smacked the windows. Wet soaked leaves crunched under my tires. The wipers screeched as they barely moved from the weight of the sleet.

Large Victorian homes lined the street, Grand Ladies of another time, one more magnificent than the other. Each set on spacious manicured sites.

The road narrowed even more and disappeared as overgrown vegetation overtook it. Stopped by clumps of wild thigh-high weeds encased in ice, I turned off the ignition. Stared at the house. Compared the address on my notepad. Exhaled slowly.

In its time, it had been a stately Victorian home complete with wraparound porch set on five acres, still part of a neighborhood but not close enough to visibly be seen by its neighbors. It was by far the largest of all on the block of vintage homes. It stood three stories high with ornate scroll woodwork everywhere. Tall long windows gave it even more vertical height with one small window at the peak in the roofline which marked the highest part of the home.

Huge piles of leaves covered the main yard. Creating a masked protection, towering oaks and evergreens dominated the house. No longer a manicured yard, every bush and tree had grown unnaturally out of control. The wild tendrils of the overgrown ivy with its searching fingers shrouded the home, devouring it. I wondered if the home itself had unwillingly succumbed to some dark law of nature.

It was already 4 o’clock as the sun began its rapid descent this late October afternoon.

Two gargoyles stood watch at the entrance of the home. Their eyes captured mine. Mesmerized by their boldness, I held my breath. Without warning, hard knuckles abruptly struck my car window. Adrenaline flooded my body. My heart quickened. Pounding throbs stretched my veins to its limit. Perspiration instantly formed on my upper lip.

Spontaneously, I turned towards the window. Stared at the lower body of a large male.  Timidly, I raised my eyes to find his face. Spotted his badge. Exhaled.

Roll down your window, he commanded.  

Apprehensively, I pushed the window button. It slowly slid down.

Please hand me your license.

He looked it over, taking his time. Stared at me with unblinking eyes.

Victoria Garraway? he coldly asked as his eyes momentarily furrowed.

I nodded. "

Why are you here?" he asked, handing me back my license. 

The bank hired me to sell the home. It’s gone into foreclosure. I’m the realtor.

As I rummaged through my purse, I forced a weak smile. Gave him my card.

Speaking rapidly, I explained, You can call Mr. Morris at the bank if you have any questions. He’s the bank officer who assigned me the listing. I have his number. I hurriedly opened my purse to get the number.

Dismissed me with his hand. No need. We’re here as security for the bank. Making sure everything is safe and sound since the house is vacant.

He wrote his name and number on a piece of paper. Handed it to me.

Tate Donavan of the Thirty-Third Precinct. Let me know if you need anything.

I nodded gratefully. Rolled up my window as he left.

The pending darkness slowly absorbed the fragile light of the late October afternoon.

I HESITANTLY GOT OUT of the car and wondered if it was such a good idea to come at this hour of the day, especially this close to Halloween. Too many kids with nothing to do. Too many pranks to thwart off their boredom.

But, this listing meant a lot to me. It was the first one assigned by the bank and could mean many more if I did a good job. Then it would be easy street.

I had worked hard to get to this point. Only six years in the business and I had already begun to establish a name for myself. My name wasn’t exactly on the tip of everyone’s lips, but I was getting there. I wasn’t about to let some imagined Halloween scare get between me and my goal. All I had to do was give quality service to the bank, smile frequently, laugh at Mr. Morris’ jokes, and I would have plenty more listings from the bank. Then it would be easy street. Then I would never have to rely on anyone for anything.

I thought how I had supported myself all these years without the help of anyone. No help from my family living on the West coast. Never them. In fact, I rarely spoke to them. And certainly, no help from any serious relationship. I had come close once, but always seemed to back off. Self-help books pointed to fear of commitment. I knew otherwise. Fear of lost freedom was the better answer.

Besides, I had a routine. Another person would just upset it. My life was organized, well planned. I didn’t need anyone redesigning it. I knew what I wanted, and I was on task. Always focused on the goal. Nothing would stop me. Besides, I was happy with my own personal life. After all, I had a dog. In many ways, better than what a man could offer. Loyal, attentive, and always happy to see me. Unlike a man. I didn’t need any complications that a man would present.

My main focus was real estate. And for right now, my primary goal was to get this home sold and quickly. Each day, it cost the bank money just to hold it in their portfolio. But I knew inside my heart the real reason I needed to sell this particular home. I had to get it sold and closed before the end of the year in order to win the coveted Lifetime Achievement award. Only a few more months left to accomplish this. Then, I would have the recognition I deserved. I would no longer be this young invisible person trying to sell real estate. I would be above the anonymous masses of realtors who had never really made it, those without real distinction.

If I won, I would be revered as an accomplished and respected professional. I would no longer be invisible. I would be recognized for who I really am. Others would want to be like me, even imitate me. I would have power. I had already waited a long time for this title. I was not willing to wait any longer. At any cost. No matter what.

Forging ahead, I cautiously walked towards the house. Dodged huge piles of wet oak leaves. Avoided a broken stair on the front porch. Slipped on a wet leaf. Reminded myself to be more careful.

My fingers grasped the key in my pocket. Pushed it in the lock. Stubborn. Turned it again. Solid. No movement.

That was all I needed right now. A stubborn lock. How many homes had this happened at? Too many. Too often. Shook my head. Occupational hazard.

As the iced rain pelted my face, my hair flattened with dampness. Water droplets inched down the inside collar of my coat. One cold drip at a time. Felt like cold icicles. Checked my watch. Getting late. Perhaps too late. Turned to leave. Paused. Remembered the goal. The trophy. Tried again. This time the door creaked open.

OVER THE PAST SEVERAL years as a realtor, I had entered hundreds of homes, but there was something about this particular one that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle as I entered it. An uneasiness and gripping anxiety invaded my body. I felt as if someone had brushed their hand on the back of my neck. Goosebumps traveled down my neck onto my arms. Never had I had such a distinct and unpleasant reaction to a home.

As a realtor, I had been in many homes, each with their own