The Invitation

By Con Shalevski

Three invitations.Three events.Three stories

A mysterious and spooky ghost tour.

A murderous wedding that the guests will never forget.

And an awards ceremony some would kill to attend..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Con Shalevski
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781922954534

Con Shalevski

Con Shalevski was born in Melbourne to a Greek mother and Macedonian father.Drama, reading, and writing were school hobbies that he never grew out of. This book was inspired by a play he had written in high school. His favourite genre is crime/thriller.He is also an accomplished professional wrestler and storyteller. He lives with his beautiful family and his pooch Arlo in Melbourne.The Full Moon Murders is his first book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I always kick off the morning with a coffee. I have done so for the past fifteen years. I love that wonderful feeling once the caffeine hits my insides. I can count the number of times I’ve missed my morning coffee on one hand.

One time, back when I owned a car, it had broken down on the freeway while I was heading to work. I was stuck out there in the emergency lane for over three hours. The RACV and tow truck took their bloody time getting out to me. By the time they had arrived, I had past the point of frustration and entered into the world of anger – angry because my bloodstream had no coffee running through it. The towie got the full brunt of my temper and disturbing vocabulary.

The second time I had suffered without a coffee was when my ex-wife’s waters broke and I had to rush her to the hospital. I stayed with her the entire time she was in labour. She didn’t want me to leave her side. My moods and temper when around her seemed to escalate to another level. Without coffee, dangerous.

The birth of my girl was the single most exciting time in my life. The second was my divorce. Sad but true.

And the third time was yesterday. I’d had a long night – drinks after work ended at 2:00 in the morning. I slept through two alarms and didn’t get out of bed until 11:00am. Luckily, work was understanding about it. There are many teachers who can stand in for someone at short notice. Not proud of it, but they’ve sat in for me a few times in the past.

‘Latte for Chad.’

My coffee is ready. Chad isn’t my real name. I use a different name every time I order coffee. Like a pseudonym. It gives me an opportunity to be whoever I want to be. I’ve used Chad a few times. I like that name. I’ve used it when I meet new people, too. Chad makes me more handsome. Girls like that name. ‘Hi, my name is Chad.’

There is a ring to it, don’t you think?

I’m glad it’s Friday, and I’m glad there is no school on weekends. The most exciting part of my day is when I leave to go home.

Some of the kids can be really nasty. All the talking and name calling behind my back. I’ve been called every name under the sun. Sometimes, I get the urge to fight back. I’ve had to fight an impulse to punch a couple of them in the face. Jab a few fingers into their throats. Back when I went to school we called that a ‘throatie’. I know it sounds terrible, but no one knows the difficulties of being a teacher unless you are one. These little shits can push all your wrong buttons.

I’m a mathematics teacher at Parade College in Bundoora. I catch the tram every morning from my house in Preston. Being two blocks from the closest tram stop on Plenty Road makes things so convenient. I save money on not owning a car; no rego, insurance, petrol, service, maintenance, parking fines – no worries. Uber simplifies the need to go any further than the tram allows me to. If it’s not on the tram path, I tend to not go. Number one rule. My rule.

I make my way over to the counter to get my coffee. There is a large lady in a blue uniform in front of me. I think she’s a nurse, or something. She moves from the counter and I move in. I grab my coffee and throw the barista a smile. The cup is nice and warm against my palm and fingers. The smell of the freshly-brewed coffee makes my insides tingle. My nose is in heaven. Paradise with every sip.

The lady in the blue uniform has opened the door to leave the café when I see a sheet of paper fall from her bag and float towards the tiled floor. She leaves before she notices.

I pick it up and read the headline.

Invite only – Ghost Tour.

This could be that exciting thing I’ve been waiting for. A boredom changer; the most exciting thing in my life since the divorce.

But I decide to hand it back – the invite is not mine, and it wasn’t meant for me. I step out of the busy cafe, looking both ways, and I see her turn the corner. I break into a slow jog to catch up. But when I turn the corner, she’s not there. As if she vanished into thin air. Where could she have gotten to?

I walk back to the café. I’ll just hand it to the people behind the counter and tell them I found it on the floor. But my evil twin in my head is telling me to put it in my bag and take it home – read it, sleep on it, and return it on Monday. Surely that should be, okay … shouldn’t it?

I hop on the tram. I have an hour before the first period and the school is about ten minutes away. I’ve still got heaps of time. I take a seat with my coffee in one hand and the invite in the other. I look out the window, at everyone moving robotically about their day, and all I can think about is the invite in my hand.

Chapter 2

I’m daydreaming about something that I simply can’t remember, and I miss my stop. Now I’m heading towards the end of the line. I can’t believe no one reminded me; I see the same people almost every day, they know where I get off! Frustrated, I stand and press the button.

Once upon a time people would sit next to you and strike up a conversation. It used to kill travel time and boredom. Nowadays, everyone sits on their devices, their fingers madly typing. They are submerged into social media and all of the other crap on their phones. They’ve forgotten how to socialise. It’s funny to say this, but I miss the good old days when phones weren’t even a thought, and the only form of communication was face to face.

I switch to a tram going back towards work. A large number of people get off at my stop, but the doors close on me when I go to exit. I lift my hands up in protest to the driver as a ‘WTF dude?’ The doors reopen for a pregnant lady, but the driver didn’t even notice me getting off, or my arms raised in protest. So fucking annoying.

I cross the road and make my way into the school grounds. I’ve passed through the carpark and am heading towards the main building before I realise I’m not holding the invite. I must have dropped it somewhere, or I have left it on the tram.

I sprint back to the tram stop, but the tram is long gone. I think about what to do next. None of my peers have seen me yet, which gives me an idea. I’ll email the head coordinator letting him know I won’t be in. I can tell them that my doctor has rung me and wants to see me in person to talk about some results. I haven’t been feeling the best of late.

I can’t tell them the truth – they’ll think I’m crazy. How would you react if I told you, ‘I’m not coming in today because I left an invitation to a ghost tour that doesn’t belong to me on the tram?’ I’d be the laughing stock of the staff room. No, I think I’ll stick to the doctor story. I’ll email them once I’ve retrieved the invite.

Plenty Road at that time of the morning is busy. Three lanes of heavy metal machinery driving well over the speed limit. It’s like playing Frogger – you’re the frog and the cars are what you need to watch out for.

I can see a cab approaching from a distance. It’s in the middle lane. If I flag it down, I can overtake the tram and meet it at the stop in front. I signal for the cab to stop. He drives past me. Stupid driver. He had no passengers in there. Why didn’t he stop? Maybe he didn’t see me … he was in the middle lane, probably didn’t notice me waving. I’ll keep walking to the next stop until another one comes by.

But no other taxis pass. I wait at the stop for the next tram heading towards the city. As I wait, I notice a piece of paper on the tracks. My eyes are a little out of focus and I can’t see it clearly. The sheet of paper is face down, the writing not visible. I look both ways to see if a tram is coming. Last thing I need right now is to be hit by a tram trying to retrieve a piece of paper from the tracks.

I’m the only one at the stop. I walk on to the track and retrieve the paper.

It’s the invite.

How do you explain this? Fate? It was meant to be.

But how did it make its way onto the tracks? Maybe a gust of wind swept through the cabin and blew it out the doors. Or someone picked it up, read it, and tossed it as they’d exited. Nevertheless, I have it in my hand and it’s a sign telling me I should go.

Is there a name on it? Maybe this is a personal invite and only they’re permitted to go. I have a quick glance. There’s no name on it. Excellent. But I might just head home and read it carefully before I respond to anything, look into it a little further. It could be fake, someone trying to embezzle money from me.

Then it crosses my mind that I haven’t paid for it. I haven’t paid for anything.

I hop on the next tram that comes by. I’ll get home and work it out while I make myself breakfast. Firstly, I need to email the school and let them know I’ll be absent today. Mr. Kluger, or Krueger, as the students call him, won’t be too impressed with me. The students call him that for a few reasons. The two I know of are his surname sounds like Krueger, and he can be just as nasty and mean as Freddy. But my care factor right this minute is zero.

I get to my apartment block and buzz myself in. I bought this place after my separation. The little money I walked away with helped me secure it. Mi casa.

I put the key in the lock and jiggle it around. Since the break in the lock has been somewhat troublesome. I just haven’t gotten around to fix it yet. It’s been four years already. How time flies when you aren’t having fun.

My mind goes blank from time to time. I feel like someone has slowly erased bits of my memory so I won’t remember things. I kind of don’t mind that. Could you imagine if you remembered everything, every detail of your past? Bad things have happened in mine, I know they have. I just can’t remember them. I really don’t have the desire to.

It’s why I don’t remember much about the break in. Thieves took almost everything but the cutlery, pots and pans, a recliner, and my bed, some bathroom stuff and some of my clothes. I haven’t replaced anything. I got used to living like this. It’s really fun living with the bare minimum. Actually, this is well under bare minimum.

I watch movies, the news, and scroll social media on my laptop now. I have Facebook. I have eleven followers and I follow over three hundred. I haven’t posted anything since the time I was burgled. Maybe they knew where I lived because of my posts; the inside of my apartment spread across every photo.

My number one follower is my daughter, Sia, short for Anastasia. She lives with her mum in Brisbane. I don’t get to see her as often as I would like. We haven’t spoken for a while. My fault. I want to patch things up but I’m not sure how to go about it. I need to work out what I did wrong first. I should ask her. She’ll tell me. Very outspoken, like her mum.

I’ve reached out and messaged her a couple of times but I haven’t had a response, yet. I’m still waiting for the day I do.

I open my laptop and bring it to life. I email Krueger – I mean Kluger. I must be careful I don’t write that. Boy, I’d be in deep trouble. And … sent. Gone. Travelling with super speed through the frequency to his computer. It’s amazing how these devices work.

I take my shoes off and put on my slippers. I walk into the kitchen and get myself a glass of water. The coffee taste is still lingering on my buds. That beautiful taste.

I look over my right shoulder towards a photo in a frame on the kitchen bench. It’s a photo of Sia. The photo was taken a while back. I imagine her looking the same, only slightly older. I miss her.

I bring myself back to the present and reach into my bag to take out the invitation. I wonder if the lady has noticed it missing from her bag? What if she was looking forward to it? I need to stop thinking about that. This invite is in my possession now.

I glance over it. My eyes wander like a guy’s would in The Men’s Gallery; so many delicious items on offer. I look once again in case there is a name secretly attached to it, but the only name I see is from the organiser – the person who will conduct the tour. His name is Dr. Samuel Lichtenstein. I wonder what he’s a doctor of? Probably Ghost Whispering. I laugh a little. Maybe he can speak to the dead. That would be cool.

You are invited to the experience of your lifetime.

A ghost tour like no other. Deadly serious.

Don’t be late.

Invite only. Present this invitation for admission.

Come alone, come prepared, come ready to believe.

Friday the 13th at 00:00

Larundel Mental Asylum

Plenty Road, Bundoora

I drop the sheet and it spirals out of control to the carpet. This is madness. Sorry for the pun, but an invitation to a mental hospital? I Google the place to find out more, and I’m left speechless. This institution was one of the last in Victoria to close. It was part of a larger complex called Mont Park. At its busiest time it housed and cared for over 750 mentally ill criminals. Criminals? Are all mentally insane people criminals? Surely not – my cousin was mad, but he wasn’t a criminal. How do they determine you to be insane? Do you get a certificate? Here is your Degree of Madness. Congratulations.

I read on and find out that serial killer Peter Dupas was treated there. I wonder how well his treatment went. Police aren’t sure exactly how many people he killed. Even if it’s one, then that’s one too many.

Despite all that, this could possibly be the single most exciting thing that will happen to me – even par with the birth of Sia.

I need to decide if I’m going … I’ll shower and think about it as the hot water trickles over my body.

Be daring, Edgar. That’s my real name by the way: Edgar Sanchez. Be daring and go to this place of nutcases. You have the invite. What do you have to lose?

And just like that, I decide to go.

Chapter 3

I get off the tram at the required stop. The streets are deserted. Strange for a Friday night in Melbourne.

An eerie feeling comes across me and does something strange to my insides. It makes the hairs on my arms stand like someone has walked over my grave. I feel nervous about this, unnaturally tense. I’m hoping the feeling will subside by the time I get in.

I’m standing in front of the building that once housed the crazies. A dead-set loony bin for the criminally insane and the clinically dead from the neck up. I’m here not knowing what to expect, but I’m willing to take that chance. I’m not usually one to dive into the deep end, but I guess you need to start sometime.

There is someone standing on the footpath. He’s quite tall, with a brushy full ZZ Top beard. A long white trench coat that goes all the way down to his shins, resembling Doc from Back to the Future. A belt around the waist keeps the coat together.

I approach him, and before I get to him his hand is stretched out, waiting to be shaken. I put mine out and he introduces himself as Dr. Samuel Lichtenstein. Well-spoken with a slight English accent. He smells of some sort of chemical, hard to pinpoint the fragrance. Possibly aftershave. A very cheap one, at that.

He asks me for the invite. I fish it out of my jeans pocket. He unfolds it and reads it, making sure it’s not a dupe. Then he passes me a nametag.

‘We all need to wear one, Edgar. Here’s yours.’

I take it from him and stick it onto my jumper. Then it dawns on me – how did he know my name? Did I mention it to him when he introduced himself? It wasn’t on the invitation – it wasn’t mine to begin with. Eager to find out, but too afraid to mention anything, I keep it quietly to myself. For now.

I realise there’s another two guys. One has a nametag reading Bruce, and the other Stanley. Both are quiet and look confused. They haven’t glanced my way at all. They’re looking around, trying to familiarise themselves with their surroundings. Probably working out the quickest and easiest escape route, just in case they need to make a run for it.

Bruce is shorter than me, and if anyone is shorter than me then they aren’t tall at all. I’ve been called a short-ass my whole life, but this guy takes the prize. I stand about 5’8". Bruce looks a few inches shorter. He has no facial hair; virgin smooth skin. He’s wearing thick Coke bottle glasses that make his eyes look twice as big, a bit like a bug. His jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck on the verge of choking himself, and he’s also wearing a dark beanie that has some logo I can’t make out. Unconditionally awkward-looking.

Stanley is the opposite. He’s dressed like he’s ready to walk down the aisle; a dark brown or possibly black two-piece suit with a black tie. He’s got blonde wavy hair like a surfer, someone you would find down at Bondi Beach – minus the suit.

We must be waiting on more to arrive. I look at my watch. It’s three minutes to midnight. Three minutes before the doc calls action.

It’s dead quiet out here. No one has spoken a word besides the doctor. He must have heard my thoughts – he holds up a piece of paper.

Keep quiet. Talk only when asked’.

I plan on doing that.

A car pulls up. It’s an Uber. Three other people hop out, two girls and a guy. We are now six in total, seven if you count the doc.

The nametags come out again, and one by one they place them on their tops. Priya, Carmela, and Jock. Nice to meet you, I say in my head, remembering to keep quiet.

‘It’s so nice to see you all,’ says the doctor. ‘No need for introductions, the nametags will help you with that. How are you all feeling? Nod your head for good, shake for not.’

I nod, so does everyone else. This is so weird. It must be an experiment or something.

‘At any point, if you feel anything, please bring it to my attention. Remember, no talking. You each will hold onto one of these.’ He hands us a small remote-control type of buzzer. ‘Whenever you feel the need to stop me, you press this button. If you get scared, press the button. If you want to quit … don’t press the button, because there is no quitting. Stay close and keep your eyes peeled. I want to mention one other thing, something that will help you through