IN THE SHIMMER

By Taryn Royce

IN THE SHIMMER is the story of two young coeds who become entangled in a web of deceit.

Janice, a hardworking woman from meager means finds herself struggling to defend her best friend Chloe, the wealthy heiress to the Stratford fortune, from the possession of a vengeful entity. That is, until she learns that her loyalties aren't warrented. Janice discovers her friend is harboring a ghastly secret, which is far worse than her own.

Set in present day Northern California, IN THE SHIMMER is not the typical "ghost story." The book does serve up a chill, but then uses (somewhat twisted) humor to illustrate that no matter how far we might think we have advanced as a society, severe social inequities still remain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781098341831

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Copyright © 2020 by Taryn Royce

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

The characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN (Print): 978-1-09834-182-4

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-09834-183-1

This book is for my beautiful, weird, and talented friend Craig.

I hope you found what you were looking for.

Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Death is nothing like I imagined it would be. The moment my soul, my consciousness, or whatever you call the part that’s still left of me separated from my body, I didn’t shoot up to heaven in a glorious ray of light. None of my dead relatives were waiting to greet me at any pearl-covered gates, and I certainly didn’t get a hug from Jesus. I didn’t find myself falling into a deep, dark pit of despair, either (in case you thought I died and went to hell). Nope, there was no heaven, and there was no hell—not for me, anyways. I’m still here in the sleepy town of Mystic Bay, California. This is where I lived most of my life. This is where I died. And apparently, this is where I’m doomed to spend the afterlife.

I’m the first to admit, I was no saint while I was alive. During my 43 years on Earth, I only stepped inside a house of worship four times. The first time was for my baptism, but that was my parents’ doing. The second time I went to church was for a wedding—one that I wasn’t invited to. Truth be told, I just happened to be walking by St. Mary’s on the way home from my family’s shop, and since I had never been inside the place, I was curious. When I pushed open the heavy wooden doors and poked my nose inside, an elderly woman who was sitting on one of the back pews turned around, smiled, and then motioned for me to enter. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I joined the party. A few years later, I ventured inside the same damned church for my mother’s funeral. Shortly after that, my father’s funeral was held there, too.

My latter experiences in church were far different from the wedding I crashed as a twelve year old. When cancer stole my mother’s life, I was heartbroken. But I understood, and even agreed with the priest when he said her passing was a blessing. My poor mom had struggled for several years with the pain her insidious disease caused, as it slowly permeated into every cell of her body. When my father died, however (and for no apparent reason), the priest had the audacity to say that his death, too, was a blessing. He even went on to say that it was all part of God’s plan. The priest’s words made me so angry that I never stepped foot inside a church again. I wanted nothing more to do with God, or his cruel plans.

So, ma chère, as you have probably realized by now, I was not one of those bible-thumping do-gooders—but I wasn’t a bad person, either. I was never mean to anyone who didn’t have it coming. I paid my taxes, and I minded my own business. I don’t deserve what happened to me.

Nine months ago, I died. Since then, I’ve been trying my damnedest to figure out why I am still here. Initially, I thought when you died you were sent to spend eternity in your happy place, because if nothing had changed, that would be exactly where I am. As time passed, however, everything I loved about Mystic Bay was destroyed. So then I began to think that I am here because I’ve been sentenced to a lesser form of hell, rather, a hell-light. But as my days in this quasi-purgatory turned to weeks, and the weeks bled into months, I discovered I wasn’t any worse than anyone else in this town. So lately I’ve been thinking that this bullshit limbo is what happens to those of us who fall into the grey area—that enormous chasm between good and evil. This explanation would satisfy me, if it weren’t for one little problem: if all the other benign people of the world ended up like me when they died, then I should be in good company. But, I am alone.

No one can hear me when I speak, and no one can see me, even when I stand directly in front of them. Since I died, I haven’t been able to feel, taste, or smell anything, either. There is one thing I have gained, however. I now have the ability to worm my way inside of someone’s mind, and while I’m in there I can read their thoughts and their memories. And sometimes, when I come upon a more perceptive person (or an extremely intoxicated person), I can make them do my bidding.

I would have given anything to possess this powerful gift while I was alive, but now that I’m dead, I’ve found it doesn’t do me much good. No matter what secrets I extract from people, and no matter what ridiculous things I make them do, I have yet to find anyone in this whole town who knows what really happened to me. And even worse, no one seems to care anymore. Everyone has moved on.

So these last couple of months, while I’ve been floating around and fucking with the townsfolk, I’ve started to suspect there is a reason for my predicament. I mean, there has to be a reason I’m still here. I refuse to believe I’m doomed to watch everyone else while they go about enjoying their lives, when I have nothing.

A year ago, I was happy. My business was finally thriving again, and I even had a little romance going—if you can call it that. A year ago, my life was pretty good. I know I wasn’t supposed to die yet, and especially not in the way I died. But, it happened. My body and every enjoyable aspect of my life got stripped away, and now I find myself stuck at the bitter end of this rickety old boardwalk, surrounded by nothing but small town, small-minded people who can’t or won’t help me. And the more time I spend here, the more pissed-off I get.

ONE

Janice paced the checkered linoleum hallway in front of Professor Jackson’s office for nearly an hour. She was about to leave the building to burn some nervous energy in the quad when she spotted the old man walking towards her.

Professor Jackson! Janice cried, as she waved her hands.

The professor’s face pulled into a scowl when he approached his office. I thought we agreed to meet at two? he said, as he tapped his watch with his index finger. It’s only one.

Janice chuckled as she brushed off the professor’s gruff demeanor. She figured he was actually happy to see that she showed the initiative to arrive early, but still felt obligated to chastise her for being too early.

I was too excited to wait, Janice said.

Really? The professor’s scowl turned to a look of confusion.

Janice nodded as she smiled. Her future was finally looking brighter. Two days earlier she learned she received a 100% on her Economics final, which gave her the highest grade in the class and also earned her bragging rights for being the first student to receive a perfect score on one of Professor Jackson’s tests. Janice was just finishing her sophomore year at San Francisco State, but since it wasn’t unusual for professors to hire undergrads as teaching assistants, when the professor asked to meet with her, she was certain it was because he was going to make an offer.

College was so expensive that even with her scholarship and various jobs, Janice still couldn’t avoid bouncing checks towards the latter part of each month—which was a real embarrassment, considering she was an Economics major. But if she became Professor Jackson’s teaching assistant, her tuition would be waved and she’d still be able to collect her scholarship money. The net result would be a huge boon to her anemic bank account.

Dust in the wind, Janice thought. All of my financial troubles are going to be like dust in the wind. Her grin widened as she thought of the old song her father used to play on his truck’s 8-track stereo, and how the title seemed to apply perfectly to her new situation.

The professor stopped at his office door, pulled out a bulky keychain from the front pocket of his trousers, and began fumbling through an assortment of keys.

Do I even know what all these damned keys are for? he muttered, as the shiny metal objects clanked against one another. After trying several of the darker, more burnished keys in the lock, the professor finally found the one that fit, and opened the door.

Sir, I’m really glad we’re meeting today, Janice said, as she stepped inside the doorway. She was trying her best to appear calm, cool and collected, but was failing miserably. Sir, I’m so happy that—

Before Janice could finish her sentence, the professor held up his hand and made eye contact with her. His eyes narrowed into slits, and his scowl pulled down even lower on his pale, wrinkled face.

Miss White, will you please step aside and let me into my office? The professor shook his head as he waved his arm towards the hallway behind him. We can’t have this discussion out here.

Oh, I’m sorry, Janice said, as she stepped deeper into the office, allowing him to pass.

The professor let out a harrumph as he walked to the back of the dimly lit room and sat down behind a large, wooden desk that was heavily laden with papers. He then turned on a desk light, which cast a modest glow of pale yellow onto the clutter, and motioned for Janice to take a seat.

Miss White? The professor raised his grey, bushy eyebrows into an arch as his eyes locked with Janice’s again.

Yes, Sir? Janice’s voice cracked as she sat down onto a faded, plaid chair that faced the professor’s desk. He never acted this gruff before, she thought. He always seemed so even-tempered in class. If this is how he really is, working for him will be challenging.

The professor lowered his eyes, and then turned to face a computer that sat perpendicular to the front of the desk. After pushing several keys on a loud, rickety keyboard, he stared blankly at the monitor.

Janice nervously drummed her fingers on the arm of the old chair she sat upon. The motion caused a waft of mildew to rise up from the worn upholstery, where it comingled with the scent of aged hardwood that had recently been rubbed down with furniture polish. The combined odor made Janice’s eyes and nose water, which in turn, caused her anxiety level to rise.

Janice spent the next several moments looking around the room, hoping to find something interesting enough to distract herself, but her eyes eventually found their way back to the professor. She stared at him, as he continued to stare at his monitor.

A minute or so passed before the deafening silence was broken with a tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Janice looked down towards the noise, and saw Professor Jackson’s foot tapping on the floor beneath his desk. She smiled when she noticed he was wearing bright purple socks with his loafers. When Janice lifted her head back up, a clear stream of snot ran out of her nose, down to her upper lip. She squeezed her eyes shut and contorted her face, but it did nothing to reduce the maddening tickle.

Sir, I’m glad we have this chance to talk, Janice said, as she wiped at her face with her sleeve. A cough escaped her throat, and for a moment she thought she might choke. I really enjoyed your class this semester, Janice managed to squeak out, just before a stream of tears rolled down her face. Good God, this is so unprofessional!

Janice wanted to escape to the hallway, so she could fill her lungs with fresh air, and regain her composure. But she didn’t want to interrupt their meeting for a melt down, especially considering she forced it to start early.

Four of these keys are hers! The professor pulled the clunky chain of keys out of his pocket and began to sift through them again.

Keys? Janice asked. I don’t understand?

These are my ex-wife’s keys. The professor held up his keychain for Janice to see. I put all of her damn keys on this ring when she—oh never mind. He shook his head and blew out a forceful breath, sounding almost as if someone had punched him in the gut. The professor then threw the keychain onto his desk and turned his attention back to the computer.

White, Janet, the professor said, as he pecked at the keyboard with his index fingers.

No, Sir. It’s Janice, Janice said.

What? the professor squawked.

My name is Janice, not Janet. I’m Janice White.

Janice was surprised the professor didn’t know her first name. She sat front and center in his class every day, and she hung on his every word—or at least, she pretended to. Janice even laughed at all of his stupid how many economists does it take to… jokes, when the rest of her classmates groaned.

The professor rolled his eyes to the ceiling and let out another audible breath. He continued to look up until his computer made a loud clink.

W-H-I-T-E, the professor spelled out loud, as he typed the letters. Now Miss White, the reason I asked to meet with you is so we can talk about the final exam.

Yes, Janice said, as her smile returned.

At first I just thought I had an impressive class this semester, since almost half of you scored over 90% on the final.

A pregnant pause filled the air while Janice waited for the professor to continue. As you were saying, Sir? she prompted. Janice’s nerves were afire, and she didn’t know how much longer she could force herself to remain seated in the stuffy room. She wanted the professor to hurry up and offer her the position so she could seal the deal with a handshake, and then leave.

I spoke with my TA about this anomaly, the professor said. He looked over to Janice, and his eyes narrowed again. He was reluctant to do so, but he told me there had been some cheating.

Janice forced her eyes to grow wide, in an attempt to look as if she were surprised by the revelation. But she already knew about the cheating because her roommate had purchased a copy of the final from the professor’s entrepreneurial teaching assistant.

"Miss White, Janice, the professor said, emphasizing the last syllable of her first name. I don’t know how you got it, but I know you had a copy of my final beforehand."

What? Janice gasped. She held her breath as the severity of the accusation trickled in. "You don’t think I cheated on your final, do you? Is that the reason you wanted to meet with me?"

The professor nodded.

No! I didn’t cheat! Janice cried. No! No! No! This can’t be happening!

Janice leapt to her feet and leaned forward, bracing herself on the front edge of the professor’s desk. The forceful movement caused two overstuffed folders to topple, and Janice watched on in horror as dozens of papers flew out of the folders and slowly floated to the floor.

Janice shook her head and groaned. She wiped her wet face with her hands, and then bent down and began to pick up the mess.

Professor Jackson, you have to believe me when I tell you that I didn’t cheat! Janice cried. I did well on your test because I studied extremely hard.

Janice stood back up with her hands full of disheveled papers. She placed them back onto the desk and began to straighten them.

Miss White, the professor said, as he slapped his hand on top of the papers, causing Janice to jerk back. In my 22 years of teaching, not one student has earned a perfect score on one of my tests. Not ever. And even if I did believe that it happened this time, why would my TA tell me some of the students cheated, if he didn’t know it for a fact?

Several seconds passed as Janice stood in silence, staring at her professor. She envisioned reaching out and taking him by his scrawny neck, and shaking him until his face turned blue.

Sir, it was your TA who cheated! Janice cried. The pitch of her voice climbed higher with each syllable. He sold copies of your final to anyone who could cough up enough money to pay for it!

What? The professor cocked his head to the side, and then frowned. Is there anyone who can back up your allegations?

Yes, I know someone who bought the exam from him. My roommate— But before Janice finished her sentence, she stopped. I can’t tell on Chloe, she would never forgive me.

Who bought the exam? the professor asked.

No one who bought the test will admit to it, Janice said. I mean, why would they? It would be the same as admitting they had cheated.

"So you want me to believe that you didn’t cheat, but my teaching assistant and several of your classmates did? the professor asked. Yet, you have no one who will vouch for you?"

Janice’s nose and eyes were running full force now, and as much as she wanted to leave the office, she couldn’t, not when her entire future was at stake.

Wait a second, Janice said. Didn’t you just say that half of the class got over a 90%?

The professor nodded again.

So if I was the one who had a copy of your final, then how did so many other students get A’s, too?

Perhaps you sold copies of the test to your classmates? the professor said, as he raised his shoulders into a shrug.

No, that’s what your TA did! Janice cried. This isn’t real, this can’t be happening! She knew she was awake, but she felt as if she were stuck inside of a crazy dream.

Professor Jackson, I’m here on scholarship. So even if I had a copy of the test—which I did not—why would I risk raising the class average by selling it to someone else?

The professor’s lips slanted into a thoughtful line. Oh, I don’t know, he said. Maybe you needed the money?

But I didn’t cheat! Janice cried. I studied very hard. I always study hard, and for every class. I have to keep up my grades to keep my scholarship.

Miss White, I had a chat with your advisor, so I am fully aware of your financial situation, the professor said. He then looked back at his computer and shook his head. And, it is because I know of your struggle that I’ve decided not to put you in front of the disciplinary board. I’m not going to have you expelled.

"Expelled?" Janice’s lips quivered. Her chest grew heavy as her thoughts turned to an image of herself as an old, withered woman. She pictured herself changing sheets, scrubbing toilets, and then carrying a hamper full of filthy laundry down to a dark, dingy basement, where she would spend countless hours washing, drying and folding. Oh God, I’m going to end up just like my mother.

Sir, please! You can’t do this! This is going to kill me! Janice cried.

Oh Miss White, don’t be so melodramatic, the professor said. I just told you that I’m not having you expelled. I’m giving you a second chance—so long as I don’t have to listen to any more malarkey about my TA.

Janice inhaled deeply, and then held her breath.

So let me tell you what’s going to happen. The professor’s voice softened, albeit slightly. Since I can’t let this incident go without any repercussions, you will receive an F in my Economics class. This means you’ll have to repeat it. Next time, however, I’ll keep a better eye on you.

But, Sir, I can’t get an F. I’ll lose my scholarship if I get just one, Janice said. The tears began again, first as a trickle, but then they ran down her face in an uncontrollable deluge.

Miss White, you’re lucky that your scholarship is all that you’re losing, the professor said.

"Lucky? I’m lucky?" A lump formed in Janice’s throat, making it difficult to swallow.

Yes. You’re lucky that I am so understanding.

But I didn’t cheat! Your TA is the cheater! Janice’s voice boomed in the small office.

Miss White, you had better leave before I change my mind. The professor stood up, walked around the front of his desk, and pointed a crooked index finger towards the door.

Janice wanted to argue further with the old man. She wanted to stay in the musty office until she found the words that would convince Professor Jackson she had done no wrong. But as she surveyed him, standing tall and angry, she realized saying anything more would only serve to dig a deeper hole. So rather than risk making matters worse, Janice did as she was told, and left.

*******

Chloe looked over the back of the sofa and smiled as Janice walked through the front door. When she noticed the forlorn expression on her friend’s face, her smile morphed into a sympathetic frown.

My God, you look like someone just died. Why so grim? Chloe asked.

Janice shook her head as she threw her tattered backpack onto the coffee table. She then collapsed into a heap on the deep, plush sofa next to Chloe.

Professor Jackson accused me of cheating on his final. He thinks I had a copy of the test, and so now I’m getting an F in Econ, Janice said. She moaned as her stomach began to churn, and she felt as if she might get sick.

Chloe scooted in closer, and for a fleeting moment Janice hoped she would offer to help her cause by telling the professor what she had done. But when Chloe’s lips pursed, Janice realized that wasn’t going to happen.

"You didn’t say anything about me buying a copy of the test from the TA, did you?" Chloe asked. Her eyes locked with Janice’s as she spoke.

No, Chlo. You know I wouldn’t do that, Janice said. She then swallowed hard, trying to rid her mouth of the sour taste that now coated her tongue.

Well, don’t worry about it, Rabbit. Chloe’s face relaxed as she flipped back her honey-colored hair. All you have to do is take the class over, and then the F will get erased from your GPA. No biggie. I’ve done it three times already.

But Chlo, you don’t understand. My scholarship gets revoked if I fail any of my classes, and I can’t afford tuition without my scholarship. Janice sat up straight on the sofa, and her stomach gurgled audibly. I’m going to have to take some time off now.

What do you mean? Like, you’re dropping out? Chloe asked.

No, not exactly, Janice said. But I will need to put school on hold, until I save up enough money for tuition. I figured, if I moved back in with my parents, worked full time for the next year, and then got a couple of student loans, that should be enough to get me through my final four semesters.

Silly Rabbit, you don’t have to do any of that shit, Chloe said. I have plenty of money. Well, I mean, Daddy does. I can give you whatever you need.

No, Chlo. Your family does too much for me already by letting me live here in this fancy place, Janice said, as she motioned her arm around the smartly decorated living room.

Oh come on, it’s not like you live here for free, Chloe said. You keep the place clean, and you do all my laundry and cooking. Hell, if it weren’t for you, this place would be disgusting, and I’d probably die of malnutrition.

Well, you do have a point. If I weren’t here, all you’d ever eat is greasy fast food. And you’d probably be wallowing in your own filth, Janice said. She then sighed as she envisioned bathing a mud-covered Chloe. Seriously? My life is going down the crapper and I’m thinking about sex? What the hell is wrong with me?

See, you can’t take any time off from school. I need you here, with me, Chloe said. She then let out a gentle laugh.

The sound of her friend’s laughter made Janice smile.

I’ll just ask for a bigger allowance. Daddy won’t need to know where the money is going, Chloe said. She then reached over and took Janice by the hand and began pressing at the soft spots of her palm.

No, Chlo, Janice said. Her skin was tingling, almost on fire. But instead of relaxing, she pulled her arm back. Keeping this place tidy in exchange for a roof over my head is one thing. But tuition is just too expensive. If you paid for it, there would be nothing I could do to compensate.

Look, you’re my best friend, Chloe said, as she edged even closer to Janice. And you’ve always been there for me when I’ve needed you, so let me be here for you this time. Just take the money. You won’t have to do anything for it, and no one will ever know about this but us.

No, Janice said. I can’t.

Oh, come on, Rabbit! Why the fuck not?

Chlo, if I took money from you to pay for tuition, then I’d owe you, Janice said.

I just told you that you wouldn’t have to do anything for it, Chloe said.

But I’d still feel obligated, Janice said. So I can’t do it, I can’t take your money.

We’ll see about that, Chloe said. She winked at Janice as she stood up and retreated to the far wall, where two large, designer suitcases were perched. She then grabbed the handles of the cases and rolled them across the floor towards the front door.

Not happening. I won’t take your money, Janice repeated, as she stood up and disappeared into her bedroom.

Seconds later Janice came back to the living room with two wobbly, sticker-covered cases. One of her bags was missing a wheel and threatened to topple to its side several times as she circumvented the maze of furniture and approached the front door.

Why are you always so damned proud? Chloe asked. Her face sported an exaggerated, childlike pout.

One of us has to have some pride, Janice replied.

You are such a mean fucker. I don’t know why I put up with you, Chloe said. She then laughed, and stuck out her tongue.

Janice looked at Chloe, and another smile formed on her lips as she pictured herself closing her mouth over her soft, pink tongue and… What the hell! Stop it! Janice took a deep breath, and squeezed her eyes shut.

I know why you put up with me, Janice said, eyes still closed. You put up with me because you love me. Janice then opened her eyes and studied Chloe’s face. She hoped her friend would smile and say: Yes, I do love you! Although, she had never heard Chloe say that to anyone.

Race you home, Chloe said. Her face bore no expression as she opened the front door, and pulled her cases out onto the porch. Last one back to Mystic Bay pays for dinner. And, since you mentioned greasy junk-food earlier, that made me hungry for some of Enrique’s tacos.

Fine, Janice said. But we both know my old junker can’t beat your car. So instead of pretending I have a chance at getting home first, why don’t we just say that I’m buying?

Sure, Chloe said, as