The Phantom Called Karma

By Ariel Ruthanne

Rumors of witchcraft creep through the superstitious small town of Sundew Creeks, but residents remain unaware of a darker karmic force at play.
Among the unaware residents is Elias Lachman—a skeptic who’s more concerned with his own problems. His identical twin, Joshua, has moved back to town to be with his girlfriend, a mayoral candidate who’s taking a special interest in the witchcraft rumors. Fearing the trauma Joshua inflicted on him in childhood will return too, Elias is prepared to do whatever it takes to stop him from hurting more people.
But when Elias takes it a step too far, a curse of karma brings dire consequences to his actions. And it all seems to lead back to a supernatural figure with an eerie smile.
Will Elias stop his brother? Or will his efforts fail as he discovers that the secrets of Sundew Creeks are more real—and more dangerous—than mere superstition?

The Phantom Called Karma is a haunting paranormal suspense novel full of twists and turns. It’s a must-read for fans of Dean Koontz. The mystery of Sundew Creeks will keep readers on their toes, while the supernatural dangers Elias faces may make them think twice about telling a lie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ariel Ruthanne
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215675755

Ariel Ruthanne

Ariel won first place in her state and placed top ten nationally in the Fine Arts Festival in 2017 for Flash Fiction. She combines mystery, horror, and suspense into compelling stories. Ariel loves to take a world grounded in realism and creatively twist it into something out of the ordinary. She is the author of The Phantom Called Karma—a story that pulls the reader into a haunting tale of curses and consequences.

Book preview

Chapter One

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H ave you noticed what’s wrong with him, or are you like everyone else?

It’s all I can think of so far—the only sentence in my notebook I haven’t crossed out. It’s the truthful way to go about this. And the truth will work, right?

Tucking the notebook snugly under my arm, I vault over the iron railing of the brick bridge and land on one of the rocks below. With all the rain lately, the rock is barely above the river’s surface, and the water rushes around me, repelled by merely a slit of height.

Have you noticed what’s wrong with him …

It’s what I want to ask but not what I should ask. I have to go about this carefully. Anything I say can and will be used against me; with three years of law school, Joshua must know that phrase like the back of his hand. And it’s exactly how he’ll treat this if I’m not precise. But how can I put it into words?

I step onto another rock. Then another, my feet tapping the film of water over the barely submerged rock.

Sometimes his face skips a beat when he’s caught off guard, like he has to process what expression he should make. And he can lie to you as if he’s only telling you what his favorite color is.

That feels too dramatic, like I’m trying too hard. Should I just go with empty stare and liar? Straight to the point? Maybe.

I leap onto the last rock—a large, flat one—and sit. The sun is bright, but a tree along the bank casts a shadow that shields me. This place is a nook of mine I’ve had since I was a kid. It’s a nice stone lounge stretching into the flowing water like a dock.

I close my eyes, imagining the conversation when I meet June. My loose curls brush my forehead in the gentle breeze as I focus.

You have this wrong. What makes you think I’d believe that? Is this a joke?

That’s what she’d probably say; it’s what most people would say.

Is what you’re telling me true? He always seemed off, but I never thought … well, it makes sense. He is, isn’t he?

That’s wishful thinking.

What the hell is wrong with you? This is a piss-poor job at sabotaging a relationship! What on God’s earth would make me believe that? That’s insane! I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to back off. Back off and go to hell, Elias.

Worst-case scenario.

I open the notebook and stare at the first page. The truth will work. Right?

… or are you like everyone else?

I scratch out what I’d written. Again. No matter how many times it plays out in my head, I don’t see a realistic way of convincing June. But what am I expecting? It’s not like anyone’s ever listened. It’s not like anyone responds to worded warnings. I’m the only one who’s caught those glimpses—those glitches—of his personality. They all love Joshua. They never notice.

I shut the notebook and notice ink smudged on my palm. I dip my hand in the flowing water, soft and cool against my skin, and try to wash it off. The best it does is fade.

Just as I’m about to dry my hand on my black jacket, I pause, gazing at the scar carved on the back of my hand—the pink slash from my wrist to my knuckles. There are two more scars hidden under my sleeve; they’re longer and jagged, traveling up my arm like streaks of lightning. I’ve had them for so long that sometimes I forget about them.

But right now is when I shouldn’t forget about them. They’re my reminder I can’t let him get to June. Whoever she is, whatever she’s like, she doesn’t deserve to go through what I went through. I have to at least try.

What if I lied?

Did you see Joshua last night? I could ask June, feigning concern.

No, she’d hopefully say, but even if she said yes, I could flip my story to work with it.

I’d lower my voice to communicate seriousness. He’s using again.

In all likelihood, that would confuse her. She might not even register the connotations of using since such a thing would conflict with Joshua’s character.

A mosquito lands on my knee. I smack it off.

You didn’t know? If I responded to her confused state with that, it would imply Joshua’s keeping secrets from her, which would be the one true part of the charade. I thought he was past it, but last night, he showed up at my door, and I knew he’d relapsed. He got so aggressive, I almost called the cops—when he’s using, he’ll scare the shit out of you. I haven’t heard from him since. Don’t let him know I told you—

This lie won’t work. It won’t work, just like the rest of them won’t work. She would go to him afterward, and he would call out my lies. She’s never met me. She has no reason to trust me over her boyfriend of two years. Joshua would win.

Stretching my arms behind me, I lean back, watching the river dash down hills, swoop around boulders, and finally pass under the brick bridge.

I’m not out to destroy his life, even if he deserves it. I just want people to see the truth. That posh little Harvard boy, off to be a lawyer? One day, I’m going to expose him. It’s a moral obligation, really.

Absentmindedly, I flip through the notebook, the pages skimming my thumb like a fan. I chose this dock because it’s a quiet, soothing area to relax while I write down my thoughts. Here, I can focus. Time slows down, the sun is warm, and the water has a chime to it; muffled and gurgled, sure, but something about the sound of its flow is melodic.

I chuck the notebook into the river. Pages flutter, and splash—gone.

Good. Nothing in there was worth keeping.

My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my pocket. Caller ID says Mom, who clearly still refuses to text. I almost dismiss the call, but I know what she’s calling about and I know she’ll keep calling. I grit my teeth and answer it.

Just checking in on you, Mom says.

Maggie already told me Joshua arrived.

I know, she says, but that’s not what this is about.

Her tone is off.

Is there something I should be worried about?

Nothing’s wrong, but please, don’t hang up. She pauses. I’ve been missing all of you. I’m planning a family dinner tomorrow evening. It’s a surprise, so don’t tell Joshua. I thought we’d celebrate him being back.

I drop my head into my hand like I have a headache—and this might just give me one. I should respond, but I’m not going to.

I know this is the last thing you want to do—

Is Thanksgiving and Christmas not enough? I snap.

"No. It’s not. Elias, I haven’t seen either you or Joshua for months, despite you living in town. What is wrong with wanting to see my kids more than twice a year, which is when we’re obligated to do so?"

Will Dad be there?

Mom doesn’t answer.

Then ‘us’ doesn’t mean the whole family. I’m not going.

You know why he won’t be there. Don’t you dare use him as an excuse. Mom sighs. "Can you please put up with Joshua just this once? Just once. You’re going to have to see him, he’s your brother. You’re twins for goodness’ sake—he’s always been there. Is a few hours more too much to ask?"

I’m tempted to let my phone meet the notebook’s fate in the river, but the cost of a new one holds me back.

Him being there is the problem, I say. You don’t realize—

And I’m not asking you to do anything nice. I just want you to be there, without trouble.

Her interruption was so quick that I wonder if she even heard me. I consider repeating myself, but I doubt she’s in the mood to listen anyway. That’s how this has gone on for years.

Can’t you put your interests aside for one night and put up with your mother’s simple request? she continues.

Your mother’s simple request. That’s one of her favorites. With Dad, it was your wife’s simple request, and she usually used it when trying to coax him to forget the diet for a night and eat the dessert she made. It means she wants something and has attached her heart to it. That’s too bad.

No. This conversation is ov—

Elias, you will be there, or I’ll close your college funds account and give it to Maggie. You dropped out anyway.

Hey, you said I could use that money how I want.

Then you should’ve made a contract because I can change my mind.

I roll my eyes. You won’t do that over this.

Try me. Her voice is stern and unwavering.

Lying isn’t a strength for her. If she sounds serious, and she does, then she’s serious. Yet she can’t be threatening me over a dinner. That’s insane … But even still, I’ve never seen her give up on something she has her heart set on.

I cuss under my breath. Fine.

Thank you—

Close the account. I don’t need the money.

Mom doesn’t answer, and I don’t make an effort to continue the conversation. Silence ensues.

Why do you hate him so much? she finally says. Her voice is breathless. Why do you hate him enough that you’re willing to cut your whole family out of your life? Honestly, I—

Cut me out of the will for all I care.

I hang up.

For years, I’ve been locking away my past. I’m not undoing all of that for a dinner. If her threat is real and she closes the account, so be it.

Throwing books in the water is bad for the environment, ya know, says a voice.

I look up at the bridge and find a teenage girl in black overalls and striped purple socks resting her arms on the wrought iron railing. Her long black hair, shaved at one side, dangles over the edge, and her rounded lips pivot sharply to the side, as if she’s holding back a smirk.

I saw you throw it, she says.

I didn’t litter intentionally, I say.

But you threw it.

I roll my eyes. Can I offer you a suggestion?

Like what?

Mind your own business and don’t talk to strangers.

Her brow furrows. What were you even writing in there? Secret messages?

I don’t respond.

Were you venting?

I don’t respond.

She leans farther over the railing. Can I at least get a hint?

I give her a hint by continuing to ignore her.

With a drawn-out sigh, she finally pulls back and continues down the trail.

People can be nosy, but that was definitely bold. She must’ve eavesdropped on my phone conversation too. And something tells me she’s less of an environmentalist and more looking for an excuse to pry answers out of me.

I stare out at the water, letting my mind wander back to June. I’d preferably show her what’s wrong with Joshua, but he doesn’t make mistakes that can be easily shown. That’s always been the problem. And words have never worked either. He just uses those to weave his lies—to stitch a mask for whatever the situation calls for and cloak who he is.

It will take more to convince June, won’t it? And I only have one shot at this. If I don’t persuade her the first time, Joshua will ensure I never will. The two of them will carry on with their relationship, and it won’t be until they’ve said their vows that Joshua will shed his cloak.

Feeling defeated, I make my way back across the rocks and climb onto the bridge. There’s nothing to be gained from sitting around, and my break will be over soon anyway. I can work this out later.

A girl shrieks.

I whip around and find the nosy girl a ways down the trail, slowly backing away from something in the woods. That doesn’t look good. Is there a wild animal? A person? Or did something harmless simply catch her off guard?

Hey! I shout, but the girl doesn’t acknowledge me.

While my own safety clings to my mind, I can’t in good conscience leave her alone in the woods if there’s some kind of threat. Sure, crime is low in this town, but she wouldn’t be the first girl to go missing.

Do you need help? I ask as I run up to her.

She looks at me with wide eyes, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Do you see it? she asks.

See what?

She points to the trees, but there’s nothing there.

I don’t see anything, I say. What was it?

She hesitates, and there’s a tense nervousness to her, but she shakes her head. Nothing.

The girl turns away and starts farther down the trail at a brisk pace.

Hang on—

I didn’t see anything, she says, not looking back at me. It was just a big spider.

I don’t know if I really believe her.

As she leaves, I step off the trail to get a better look. Nothing around. Cautiously, I travel farther into the woods, bushes shaking and crackling under my feet. A bug buzzes by my ear; I swat it away.

I see nothing, and if there was a person, I’m not sure how they could’ve disappeared so quickly and quietly.

I’m probably overreacting again. Mom would always chide me for being paranoid as a kid. And sure, having four locks on my front door is a bit much for a town with little crime—I can admit that’s irrational. But the rest? The rest never was.

I retreat to the trail.

Do you see it?

It. That couldn’t be referring to a person. If it was an animal, it’s long gone. She should be fine. What can I do? Call the police? Follow a teenage girl through the woods? It’s best to leave her be, and I’m already going to be late to work.

Pushing anxiety from my mind, I leave. I can’t help but look back, just once, but the trail is empty and quiet aside from a few chirping birds.

It was nothing.

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In town, cars creep down the road as pedestrians hog the crosswalks; it’s part of the reason I choose to walk to work. A woman passes me, holding her baby in one arm and toting several shopping bags in the other, and she’s far from the only one attempting to juggle their purchases from the shops lining the street.

Elias! someone calls.

It’s Amelia, smiling at me from her market stall on the street corner. She’s in full costume, wearing a flowing floral skirt and beaded necklace. String light stars and dream catchers hang off the stall’s roof, while colorful jewelry and small woven worry dolls are on display next to a crystal ball that glows as it reflects the sun.

Amelia’s been trying to sell to me for years, and considering how clouded in superstition Sundew Creeks is, she isn’t the only one to wave tarot cards in my face, and she won’t be the last.

That’s how it is here. Sundew Creeks drips with superstition. Most towns have welcome mats and flowers on front porches; Sundew Creeks has good luck charms and dream catchers.

But I’ve never taken Amelia’s offers, and at this point, she’s teasing me.

Have you heard about the attacks? Amelia asks, tucking a dark curl behind her veil. This town made more than local news for the first time in a long while, I imagine simply due to the oddity of it.

I was going to tell her I’m running late for work, but maybe it can wait because she has me intrigued.

What attacks? I ask.

Witches, she answers as she straightens a worry doll on her display. Though more of a voodoo practice this time. Nobody’s gotten hurt, and they’re saying it’s just pranks, but I have a bad feeling about it.

What’s the voodoo practice?

Graveyard dirt. It’s being left on doorsteps. Someone found a note identifying it as a curse, although it wasn’t specific about what kind.

It sounds like they’re only trying to scare people.

Trying to scare people would be drawing pentagrams on the doors of Catholic folk. Amelia closes her eyes for a moment, fiddling with a blue talisman hanging from her neck. Graveyard dirt isn’t a well-known method, and it takes a good bit of effort to get the stuff in the first place. Nobody goes to this extent as a prank. My friend found some; she said this one’s a particularly vile mixture. Amelia’s grip on the talisman tightens. It could get someone killed.

So that’s why she’s calling it an attack; she thinks it’s dangerous.

Be mindful to avoid your doorstep if you see any dirt scattered on it, Amelia continues. Even if you don’t believe in this kind of thing.

I’ll be sure to keep my vacuum cleaner handy, I say. Anyway, I’m running late for work. See you later, Amelia.

Shaking her head, but smiling, Amelia waves me goodbye, and I pick up the pace, practically jogging to make up for the lost time.

I can’t say I share any of Amelia’s worries. It’s probably pranks by bored kids, and even if it isn’t, I don’t believe in curses. But I’ve never seen Amelia so worried. I wonder how the rest of the town feels about it.

What Amelia said about the graveyard dirt—how it’s uncommon and isn’t easy to get—also makes me wonder about the motivations of the pranksters.

Why so devoted to scaring people?

Chapter Two

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The busyness of the streets dissipates the closer I get to Yin’s small clothing shop where I work. It hides on the outskirts of the main street, far enough away that most people don’t bother walking by. Not the best spot for business, but there aren’t many available buildings to choose from around here.

The shop’s brick building is cracked and chipped—most of the buildings in this town are, as it retains many of its charming structures from when it was built during the gold rush. But despite the rough exterior, the windows are new, and the mint walls inside were recently painted. Shan and I spent a good while removing and placing back all of the shelving and racks mounted to the walls for the job, but it was worth the effort.

Yin displays her favorite clothing designs, all handmade by her, on the walls. Though I’m not one for interior design, I can tell the mint pairs well with the pastel fabrics. Something about the colors makes the shop feel calm and relaxed—much like Yin herself.

That shows, as although I’m late to work, Yin listens to my explanation unbothered. She agrees it was nothing, which settles my remaining nerves, letting me work in peace.

Shan interrupts that peace, but his talking stopped bothering me long ago. I’ve learned how to let his voice run in the background so I hear enough to make it seem like I’m listening but not enough for it to be disruptive.

Elias gets it. Right, Elias? Shan says, catching my attention.

My brow furrows. What? No.

But you said you believe in ghosts, he says, as if he knows me better than I do. Come on, my ghost hunting group is stopping by Wilson’s Lake tomorrow night—rumors say it’s haunted.

I grab a shirt off the shelf that hadn’t been folded properly and shake it out to redo it. I don’t recall.

Where did he get this idea?

I told you, he doesn’t buy anything supernatural, Yin calls out.

Yin is hunched over at the counter, keeping track of sales, her black hair hanging over the paper like a curtain. Although her hair blocks her face, I can tell from the lift in her voice that she’s smiling. I finish folding the shirt and lay it back on the shelf.

Shan slumps into a chair and mindlessly spins his red cap by the strap. It’s not just rumors though. People have picked up activity there.

With phony devices, Yin says. Jeez, when did you get so invested in supernatural stuff?

Since that hike with Ron. Shan puts his cap back on, though the movement is floppy—dejected. Figures I’d get stuck working with the only two people in town who don’t believe in ghosts, he grumbles.

Well, you have all of tomorrow night to complain about us to your group. Yin grabs a clipboard and holds it out to Shan. For now, I need you to take inventory. The supplies I ordered are running late, and I need to know exactly how much material I have to work with for orders.

You just want me to stop talking about ghosts, don’t you? Shan says.

Yin smirks and writes something on the bottom of the clipboard. As she hands it to Shan, I get a glimpse at what she wrote: ghosts, with a little check box next to it.

Shan looks at the clipboard and rolls his eyes. Very funny.

Oh no, I’m serious, Yin says in a grave voice. There’s been some eerie whispering back there. She stifles a smile. Right, Elias?

Yeah. They said they were going to haunt the next person to enter the room for the rest of eternity. Good luck, Shan.

With a deep sigh, Shan goes into the back room. I’d feel bad, but Shan knows how to brush off Yin’s teasing; after all, they’re siblings. They have the same short nose, arched eyes, and sharp chins. Even their smiles have a matching pattern of dimples and curves, although Yin often has a tint of playful deviousness to hers.

Joshua and I are even more physically similar, being identical, but the similarities end there. Yin and Shan, while they’ve had their rivalries, get along well. Sometimes it makes me jealous.

Yin returns to the register and sits on an old stool she’d propped against the wall to recline on. She drapes her coat over her tanned shoulders, presumably as a makeshift cushion, and pulls out a book; I take it she’s expecting a slow evening. Reading is what she always does when she has nothing better to do.

The bells dangling from the door handle jingle, alerting us a customer is entering, although I could tell by the creak of the door. Two college-aged girls enter. Yin slides a bookmark into the pages, jumps off the stool, and sets the book on the counter.

Welcome! Her smile is staged, and as soon as the girls look away, she’s back to looking miserably bored.

I let the girls browse. One of them, a brunette in tall boots with blue streaks in her hair, is ranting in a loud voice about her unreasonable college professor. Her mouth opens wide as she talks, as if she’s ready to break out in song, and her hand gestures are equally as dramatic—her leather jacket making a rubbery hissing sound each time she moves her arms.

The other girl doesn’t seem interested in the conversation and fiddles with a button on the sleeve of her brown sweater. She looks melancholy; despite sunlight from the large display window highlighting her ginger hair and light, freckled skin, something about that dreary look makes it feel as though she’s in shadow.

The talkative girl interrupts herself. Oh, look at that! She grabs her friend’s arm and pulls her to a small circular rack with silk scarves. I love this color! she says, running her hand down one of the scarves, white with a purple gradient.

Time to approach them.

Like the scarf? I ask.

It’s awesome! She picks up the end of the scarf to see the price tag and frowns. Fifty?

That’s a common price for scarves, I say.

Why are they so expensive? She groans and shows the tag to her friend. Look at how expensive that is!

It might seem that way, I say, but it’s a good price for something one of a kind. All the clothing here is handmade locally, either by Yin, this shop’s owner, or by an independent seller who delivers their products here. In other words, you won’t find that scarf anywhere else.

The girl gazes at the scarf in her hands, thinking.

If you want that scarf, you can only get it here and now, I say.

Well … She slowly lets the scarf slip from under her fingers, then looks at me. What’s your name?

Elias.

I’m Abby. She points to her friend. And this is Heather.

It’s a delight to meet—

Oh, right! Abby says. That’s right, I was going to ask you, Elias, sir, if I could get a discount?

Was her introduction somehow her forgetting she was in a shop?

There’s no discount for the scarf, I say.

"I know, I know, but please?" Abby says.

No. They’re full price.

I notice Heather’s eyes shift to the wall behind me. Though my back is turned, I know she’s looking at the shelf with knitted hats. While Yin makes most of the clothing here, everything knitted is from Nancy, an elderly woman who lives a couple blocks away. We’ve been selling her creations since the shop’s founding.

Hmm … Abby snaps her fingers in Heather’s face to get her attention. Hey, what do you think? I can’t decide.

It’s pretty, Heather says.

Abby turns to me. Do you have anything cheaper?

I point to a smaller rack of knitted scarves pushed against the wall behind me. Those ones there. The woman who makes our knitted items, Nancy, uses the profits to fund her granddaughter’s ballet classes.

Abby clasps her hands together. Aw, that’s sweet!

While Abby drags Heather with her to the other rack, I grab a brown winter hat adorned with a small white flower from the shelf Heather had been looking at. As I grab it, I break off the price tag. A quick, small twist with my fingers they’ll never notice.

So your name’s Heather? I say.

Yes—

And I’m Abby, Abby cuts in.

I know that.

Yeah. Pleasure to meet you. I hold the hat out to Heather. You’re wearing a lovely sweater, and this hat would match it perfectly.

Abby gasps. Heather, it does! It’s the same color.

Heather seems to be pondering it.

Rolling her eyes, Abby elbows her. You need to respond.

Heather gently takes the hat from me and brushes her thumb over the soft wool. How much does it cost?

Same as the scarf, but I’m willing to give you a discount. Let’s say forty dollars for it. There’s a mirror right over there if you want to try it on. It would look nice on you, so I think the offer’s fair.

Heather blushes.

The hat’s real price is forty; there’s no actual discount. But they won’t find out without the price tag. No harm done. I’m not charging them extra; I’m giving them the illusion of a sale. It’s a basic marketing tactic, and I’m on a commission.

Is it a deal? I ask her. Limited time offer.

It’d be better if I paid full price. I want to pay what it’s worth to support the grandmother, Heather says. And even if you cover her end, I wouldn’t want to take anything from your paycheck either.

Crap. The sympathy ploy worked against me. I can’t charge her more than what the hat actually goes for, which means I need her to either accept the discount price or own up to my lie—which would mean I’m not getting a sale … and I’ll get in trouble with Yin.

Nancy would have my head if I went back on an offer, I say. She’d insist on giving you the sale, and it’s no problem for me, don’t worry.

Heeaaather, Abby says, he’s being nice. Let him be nice.

Maybe, but I want to look around a little more to be sure, Heather says, handing the hat back with the same gentle manner she first took it with.

Take all the time you need, I say.

I place the hat back on the shelf and head over to the register. Yin gives me a disapproving look.

I know how much that hat costs, she says in a hushed tone.

Does it matter? I ask, keeping my voice low as well.

It’s dishonest, she says.

Go ahead and tell them then.

That’s for you to do.

I won’t be doing it.

Yin shakes her head. Whatever. You get too caught up in this.

I get you sales, I say, and the customers are happy with what they buy.

Happily unaware they’re not getting the deals they think they are.

What does it matter? You make it sound like conning. It’s just persuasion with half-truths.

Mhm. Just don’t get caught, or I’ll have to fire you.

Despite the fact I’ve been friends with Yin since high school, when she says she’ll fire me, she means it. I take no offense. In fact, I’ve always appreciated her honesty.

Still, the business would take a hit if I left, so she wouldn’t be as quick to fire me as she likes to make it sound. Shan would have to really step up to cover until she found a suitable replacement, and the shop’s becoming unstable. How unstable, I don’t know. Yin doesn’t share details; it was by accident I found out to begin with.

I glance back at the girls; Heather’s staring at the hat. Yin might disapprove, but I’m making a sale. All I need Heather to do now is decide.

That Heather girl keeps looking at you, Yin says.

And?

"And I think she likes you. A lot of girls give you that look. It helps with your sales sometimes."

Is that why you hired me?

No, but it is the reason for a couple of your bonuses. She laughs. "I’m kidding … but