Anyone But You

By JC Doan

The family that ghost hunts together...

If Ginger thought avoiding her determined ex and helping her brother with a paranormal investigation would be easy, she was dead wrong. A two-week mid-summer investigation is about to reunite a family and give Ginger a second chance at love—if she’s bold enough to take it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JC Doan
• Release date: Jul 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005229542

JC Doan

Evernight Teen author ❣️

Book preview

Anyone But You

by JC Doan

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover by germancreative.

Copyright 2022 JC Doan. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

(Ephesians 6:12-13)

Chapter One

Midnight ghost-hunting sucks.

There, she’d said it. The thought that had been on the tip of her tongue and repeatedly held back had finally been given life and voice. Those three little words hung in the air between them. The tense, uncomfortable silence that followed almost made Ginger regret her choice of words.

She was cramped and tired, and her eyes burned from having spent the last three hours squinting into the darkened room. On top of all that, she was hungry, a stomach-churning reminder of why she rarely stayed up into the wee hours of the morning. Or she hadn’t, until her brother had become her guardian and subsequently developed an obsession with all things paranormal.

Well, it does, Ginger muttered in her own defense.

What?

Suck. This sucks. Why was he making her play the bad guy by forcing her to own up to what any sane, rational person would be feeling under such bizarre circumstances?

Except he really wasn’t. The thought came on the heels of a fresh pang of guilt. Chris had been silently excited all evening, watching the shadows move with a breathless anticipation that eluded Ginger. Her brother had asked for her help, her support, not her criticism.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Her breath misted in the cold air between them before finally evaporating and becoming part of the shadows that twisted throughout the corners of the old house. A neat trick for late spring in the South. She didn’t even want to see their next power bill.

If that’s how you feel…

It’s … not.

Really, Chris said, clearly skeptical.

Well, maybe just a little. Do we have to do this in the dark?

Spirits don’t respond to the light.

Obviously. She hadn’t meant to snort, honest to God.

You don’t have to be here, you know.

Yes, I do. I live here.

You could have said you didn’t want to do this, Ginger. If it’s making you so uncomfortable, then go to bed.

Will you turn the air down? she countered.

A cold environment is more conducive to—

Chris!

Fine. His lips pressed together in a thin line. Even though it’s not that cold.

Sixty-two degrees is beyond cold. It’s trying to turn your sister into an ice cube. The grousing drew another grim look from her brother, who admitted defeat and flipped on the drawing room light before stalking his way to the main thermostat.

Happy now?

You know I love you.

Here we go.

No, just listen to me.

Go on. He rested a hip against the oak dining table and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

Don’t you think you’re taking this thing a bit too far?

What ‘thing’ are you referring to?

This! she cried. "The cameras, the audio recorders. The videos." Her voice dropped to a furious whisper.

Chris had the grace to look embarrassed. I didn’t know you were bringing a date home that night. I’ve already apologized for that.

Yeah, well. Tell that to Adam. Ginger blew a stray red hair out of her face and barely resisted the urge to cringe at the memory.

Fine. I’ll apologize to Adam. When he apologizes for making out with my sister on my living room couch.

We weren’t even doing anything except kissing. Seriously, Chris.

That’s bad enough, he muttered. Then, with a sigh, Do you really want me to apologize?

Don’t bother. We broke up.

Was it the video?

Yes, damn it. It was the video. It hadn’t been, but Chris needed to give the surveillance a rest already.

Won’t happen again. He crossed his fingers in front of his chest as though he were some sort of modern day boy scout. His expression said it would clearly happen again.

All I’m saying is maybe you need to find another hobby. She gentled her tone, trying to make him see reason. Like Sports Center, or collecting. A nice coin collection sounds good. You like old things.

But my documentaries…

Could be about anything. You could get into real journalism.

I’m not a reporter.

Then what about something artistic?

Ginger, why does this make you so uncomfortable?

It doesn’t. Not really.

I think it does, he persisted. I think this stuff scares you.

Scares me? Are you serious? Her footsteps echoed on the bare floor as she marched into the country kitchen and flipped the switch, flooding the room in pale golden light.

Yes, and I’d like to know why.

There’s nothing to be scared of. This stuff isn’t real. None of it exists, Chris. Ghosts are not real.

Says you.

Yeah, me and anyone else with a lick of sense.

There’s been documented evidence to the contrary. Explain that. His challenge irked her, and she couldn’t resist taking the bait.

Shadowy footage and bumps in the night are not proof. Houses settle and make noise. Dust particles float through the air. And who can make out anything in the dark? she countered. Ginger one, Chris zero … and on his way to the nut ward if he keeps this up.

I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, he repeated. If you didn’t want to help, all you had to do was say the word.

Chris, this house is not haunted. You’re taking it too far is all I’m saying. Every week you’ve got hours upon hours of footage to go through. It’s just a little much.

I disagree. But I won’t ask you to do this again. You’re off the hook.

Sure. You creeping around down here all hours of the night like some sort of weirdo is oh so relaxing. Ginger rolled her eyes and drained her juice in a single gulp. She rinsed the glass and set it beside the chrome sink. I’m going to bed.

Ginger…

Yes?

Nothing, he sighed. Goodnight.

Are you coming upstairs?

In a bit.

She hesitated for a full minute before giving a curt nod and heading up the stairs. Tomorrow is another day…

****

Sunday morning came much too soon. Nothing new there. She eyed the puffiness below her eyes with rising irritation.

Every Sunday, she took turns with Chris on the most daunting task in the history of humanity: taking their grandmother shopping.

Just the thought of the next four hellish hours was enough to make her groan. Gran was hard to take on a good day, and this, Ginger reflected, was not going to be a good day. She had already dropped her mascara into the tub and knocked her cell phone into the toilet trying to retrieve her makeup from its watery demise. In the end, both items perished. The waterlogged tube was ruined. She was forced to wash her face, since leaving the house with one eye made up was not an option.

Fresh-faced once more, she had carefully reapplied concealer and, after a quick peek at the clock, made a spur-of-the-moment decision to shave the space between her eyebrows. Usually she plucked and occasionally she waxed, but on days where a touch-up was in order and time was short, she simply grabbed a razor and made do.

She was just about done when Chris barreled into the bathroom, sending the heavy door crashing into her shoulder with jarring force. When all was said and done, Chris’s shocking footage had turned out to be car headlights reflecting off the fireplace mantle, and Ginger was missing most of her left eyebrow.

Not a good start to what promised to be a tedious day. She regarded her drawn-in brow with no little scorn and decided she was as ready as she was likely to get. Grabbing her purse, she scowled at Chris, then managed to make it to Gran’s assisted-living apartment in record time, courtesy of road rage and a lead foot.

Sorry, Grandma. I made it here as soon as I could. Are you ready to go?

I was ready to go an hour ago.

Great. Ginger forced a smile. Lets—

But now I have to go to the bathroom.

Oh, she exhaled, deflated. I’ll wait here. Unless you need help…? Please don’t need help. Please don’t need help. Please don’t…

Thank you, but I haven’t forgotten how to wipe my own ass.

Gran!

I’m old, not an invalid, she snapped, making her way down the hall to her bright pink powder room, the aluminum walker thunk-thunking all the way.

At least she’s using her walker today, Ginger muttered, taking a seat on Gran’s aging tweed sofa.

That anyone had ever thought tweed was a good choice of fabric for a sofa was beyond absurd. She shifted her attention to the rest of her over-bright surroundings and tried not to scratch.

Gran loved pink. Any and all shades would do. Pink slipcovers on the chairs, pink feathers in a rose crystal vase, fuchsia coasters. The only thing in the tidy living room that wasn’t pink was the dreaded tweed plaid couch—that and the draperies on the windows. Those were blue, done in the very same silvery shade of aqua as Gran’s bi-monthly hair rinse. The thunk-thunking resumed a minute later, signaling the old woman’s return a full two minutes before she entered the room.

Don’t just stand there, girl. Open the door and let’s get out of here.

The drive to their next stop took considerably longer than the initial thrill ride to the apartment. Ginger knew from experience that Gran considered anything over twenty miles per hour to be speeding; she rode the brake all the way to the Save-N-Stop, breathing a sigh of relief when she was finally able to get out and stretch her legs.

Thank you, Jesus, she muttered.

What was that?

Nothing, Gran. Are you ready? She tried for a chipper tone but fell flat.

I’ve been ready for five minutes, and if you’ll stop lolly-gagging around and help me out of this rust trap, then maybe we would actually get some shopping done. Unless you want to stand around all morning talking to yourself.

I wasn’t… Oh, forget it. Ginger sighed. Here, let me help you.

Gran creaked and groaned her way to a standing position. Then, with walker firmly in place, she trudged across the parking lot to the wide double doors with the automatic open sensors, Ginger trailing behind. Ten short minutes later, they were in the store.

I forgot my purse in the car. I’ll just go get it.

No. Ginger’s eyes widened in horror. You stay put, Gran. I’ll run and get it.

But I could fall and break a hip, the old lady protested.

Standing here for sixty seconds?

Yes. It happened to Melba just the other week, Gran insisted, glaring at her youngest granddaughter.

You’ll be fine. I’ll be right back.

If I’m on the floor when you get back, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’m not that lucky, Ginger said under her breath.

What was that?

Nothing, she tossed over her shoulder, refusing to meet Gran’s glare. She could practically feel those shrewd eyes boring into her back as she dashed—blue-and-yellow sundress flowing around her body—out the door and into the sun-baked parking lot. It took less than a minute to retrieve the purse. She stopped only long enough to plunk change into the pay phone at the side of the aging structure.

Malhaven residence, Chris answered on the fourth ring.

I hate you! Ginger snapped before slamming the phone back into its cradle and hurrying to rejoin Gran.

They made eight stops that day, each more mind numbing than the last. After the Save-N-Stop came the bank, the pet store—Gran liked to talk to the brightly colored birds along the back wall—the post office, Hobby Lobby, Old Country Buffet, the Dollar General, and the pharmacy. Gran always saved the pharmacy for last, despite protests from her family. They never arrived earlier than four thirty PM.

The pharmacy was, hands down, Ginger’s least favorite excursion of a day with Gran, and she was not alone. The general consensus of the entire family was unanimous: Anything was preferable to taking Gran to the pharmacy. Fifty-two card pick up, sand in your bikini bottom, strep throat, mono, a yeast infection, bird flu, flesh eating disease, and falling down the stairs were all activities that had made the collective family list of Things I’d Rather Experience Than Take Grandma to CVS.

Take me to Walgreens, Gran protested as Ginger cautiously steered the car into the nearly empty parking lot.

We’re already here. Besides, you’re not allowed in Walgreens anymore, remember?

She immediately regretted her choice of words. Asking Gran if she remembered her pharmacy nemesis was like asking if she had remembered to put a bra and underwear on that morning—dangerous territory and something the woman was likely to not only remember, but pounce on and bitch about for the next hour. But wait…

Although she couldn’t vouch for the underpants, Ginger acknowledged with a sideways look, it appeared as though Gran had in fact forgotten her bra that morning. She frowned. That wasn’t possible. Not unless Ginger was losing it.

Nana, where is your brassiere?

Is that your business?

Lord have mercy. Gran, I know that you left the house this morning with your bra on. It is now, she glanced at her watch, four thirty, and you’re not wearing it. Where did it go?

In my purse. Gran’s chewing gum shot out of the passenger side window.

"Why?" Ginger dragged the question out, holding on to her fragile sense of control and fervently denying the headache that was beginning to form.

It was too hot in that store.

What store?

K-mart. Where else? All that money, you’d think they could afford some decent air conditioning. Terrible.

We didn’t go to K-mart today.

Oh. Well, then it must have been the Petco. Yes, that’s it. I left it in the Petco.

"You left it behind?!" The screech earned yet another death stare from the old woman.

So what if I did?

But you just said it was in your purse. Now you’re telling me you left it in the pet store. Dear Lord…

That’s right. Don’t you judge me, missy. I was wearing a bra before you were born, unlike that no-account mama of yours. I’m eighty years old. If I want to take the thing off, I should be able to do so without having to endure lip from a Little Miss Sassy Pants.

Dear God, she’d left it in the Petco.

Let’s not do this. The pharmacy is about to close. If you want to pick up your medicine and finish your shopping, we have to do it now. She cursed her too-candid observation. If Gran was worked up and on a rant, she would likely forget about the last of her shopping, providing for a tiresome but less dramatic afternoon. Too late now.

Your mother was the bane of my existence.

Then again, maybe not. You talk about her like she’s dead.

She is dead—to me. I have nothing to say to her. And I never will. The old woman stuck her chin out and did her best to look mutinous.

Fine.

And I’ll tell you another thing. When my husband, God rest his soul, passed away, I didn’t run away with my boyfriend and leave my oldest child to raise my youngest one, she said, nose lifting another inch. I told my son not to marry her.

Well, he did. And then he—a risk analyst and self-professed health nut—had sent shock waves through his entire family when he’d died of pneumonia four years ago, a week before Ginger’s thirteenth birthday. Her mother had taken her first drink a week after that. Within a month, she was gone, leaving her nineteen-year-old son and tween daughter a note. Ginger yanked her keys from the ignition and gripped the steel ring so hard it was sure to leave an indent in her palm. Are you ready to get the rest of your shopping done? she asked, shoving aside the unpleasant memories and patching old scars under layers of forced indifference.

No. Take me to Walgreens. I don’t care what that weeny with the tie said. I’ll shop there whenever I feel like it. They probably forgot all about that incident by now anyway.

The weeny in a tie is a civil court judge, and they still have your picture up. You go to the CVS, or you go home. Your pick.

You’re a terrible girl, Ginger. Terrible.

What’s it going to be? She glared right back, waiting.

"Let’s go. I need