Beach Thriller(11)
All Holly felt was Serena’s perspiration.
“Um, maybe … No? Not sure—”
“The energy is so strong,” Serena said.
And so is your grip, thought Holly, pulling her hands free. She felt torn between skepticism and the eerie gravity of the moment.
“I’m not sure I’m picking up anything—”
“Try harder,” Serena insisted. “Calm your thoughts and concentrate.”
That felt like a contradiction, but Holly didn’t object. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to feel something with all her might. But the only thing her tight squeezing and concentrating did was give her the decidedly familiar sensation of being constipated.
Her friend wheezed a strangled gasp. Holly’s jaw clenched. Would she have to perform CPR? Shit. She had done the course, but that was ages ago.
Serena lifted her gaze to the ceiling—or heavens, Holly couldn’t say which.
“You have a message from Anna,” Serena whispered.
Fear rippled through Holly. She gaped at Serena, who sat motionless, her once-vibrant eyes now dull as stone.
Serena raised an arm and pointed at Holly with deliberate care. “Anna is here … she’s always here,” said Serena—or not Serena—her voice now a deeper, slower cadence.
Holly’s body trembled.
Serena clutched her chest. Was it a heart attack—or heartache? Had Anna revealed her killer’s name?
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Serena said.
Holly’s breath hitched. Serena’s voice had an unsettling similarity to Anna’s, making it seem like her sister was speaking through her.
“You’re not safe in Beauport.”
Chapter 8
Holly
“Please keep in touch,” Serena said. She opened the front door slowly, hesitant to leave. Holly felt the ocean breeze pick up. Was a storm coming or had one already arrived? She read the subtext in Serena’s strained expression: Heed the advice from the other side—get away from here and never return.
Alone again, Holly felt adrift. What would she do now? Pack up what little she owned to escape an unknown threat? And go where? This was her plan B.
What type of danger did she face? And from whom? Who would care that she’d come back to Beauport?
Anna’s killer. Houses don’t spontaneously combust, chimed a voice in Holly’s head.
Holly thought a glass of wine might dampen the spiritual chatter. Fortunately, the bottle Serena had brought was a screw top, since she had no opener.
She settled into her grandfather’s rocking chair, her glass of wine on a nearby table and a pad of paper and pen in her lap—her sword and armor. It was time to go to battle. No wallowing in self-pity or pondering the occult. As Dan suggested, she could pivot and write a bestselling thriller or mystery novel. Why not? It’s not what you write, it’s how you write it! So what if she’d never written a grisly murder or steamy sex scene? Writing is writing, so she would roll up her sleeves and get cracking on some riveting, pacy prose.
On paper, Holly jotted down Step One: What am I going to write about?
She laughed at herself—that standard book-talk question rearing its head once more. Where do you get your ideas?
Holly stared at the empty page. Hell if she knew. Nothing was quite as frightening as a pure white, completely blank space to fill. She took a deep breath, summoning her favorite writing mantra: Be fearless!
She cleared her mind and jotted down her first idea: Woman found dead on a train with six other passengers aboard, a conductor, and nobody else.
Hello, originality! Next …
Mismatched couple lost in the jungle after a plane crash, with mysterious cargo on board that someone is willing to kill for.
Sounded like an action-adventure novel and not something Holly wanted to write. (Nor would she write it well.)
She tried again: Philandering husband meets the end he deserved.
Yawn. Done a million times. She crossed it out.
Chester approached. Holly looked down at him and wrote: A woman finds her rescue cat is an alien. He’s also a gifted storyteller. In return for her kindness, he gives her the perfect story.
“So, Chester,” she said, gazing into his furry face, “let’s have it. What should I write that will sell a lot of copies?”
Chester meowed, presumably because he was hungry. But before Holly could feed him, she heard an unmistakable thud, something heavy falling overhead, like a body dropping.
“What the—?”
A shock wave ran up her spine. She jumped to her feet, scaring Chester, who scampered away—his meal could wait. Some guard cat he turned out to be.
Holly paused to listen but heard only her thumping heart. She stood motionless, waiting for another noise, but all remained ominously silent.
Ghosts don’t thump. Do they?
Either way, she’d done enough guessing. She was stuck in this house—and she wasn’t going to pay an exterminator unless she saw a creature with her own eyes. If it were a ghost, it wouldn’t be corporeal, so she had nothing to worry about. It would be spooky, strange, weird—maybe even inspiration for this impossible book of hers. But if she couldn’t touch it, it couldn’t touch her. Now, a rabid animal—that was a different story.
Holly headed upstairs holding her pen, which wasn’t a wise choice for armament—definitely not mightier than the sword. But it was too late now. If she retreated to the kitchen for a knife, she’d lose her nerve to investigate.