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Chapter 1 – The Fall
Empyrean – The Imperial City.
Altair, Aquila Constellation.
Year: 1080 AD

The sickly stench of death curled silently through majestic arched windows and coagulated, forming a thick grey cloud of wretchedness.
Burning torches hung randomly along high stone walls, illuminating the deserted Royal Palace. Stray swirls of smoke danced gracefully around elaborate marble columns that lined a black aisle. At the end of the aisle was an elevated dais that had formerly held four golden thrones.
Behind the one remaining throne hung a massive shield revealing a serpent entwined on a gem-encrusted dagger. A masterpiece extolled in bronze depicting the Grigorian Coat Of Arms.
The remainder of the chamber void now from the lavish furnishings that had once seated Royalty, in the Imperial City of Altair.
A lone male figure, eclipsed by the overwhelming size of the chamber, glared at the deserted throne as he paced. He waited - something he did not like to do, for the imminent arrival of the others.
His impatience was evident in every knotted muscle on his chiselled face. Raised black veins pulsated on his muscular throat; hands formed clenched fists by his sides. His eyes were yellowy, like the colour of cat’s eyes, with a minuscule black speck for a pupil. They transcended pure evil.
The long dark cape that he wore swept the floor behind him, as he glided ghostlike, across the marble surface. He walked over to a tall arched window and stopped, folding his arms across his broad chest.
His white open necked shirt displayed a segment of a black inked serpent. It quivered across his chest, as though it were alive. The remainder of the serpent, hidden by clothing, encircled his torso before continuing its rippling passage down his arm. The fanged head revealed itself from beneath the ruffled shirt cuff on his left wrist. Crimson blood dripped off one of the razor-sharp fangs. Human blood.
He looked out into the dark night and watched as the city below continued to burn out of control. High on The Mountain Of Seven the illuminated dome, the centrepiece of the Pinnacle Sanctuary, was slowly starting to fade. Only flames from the fire cast light on the towering stone enclosure that safeguarded the crystal domed structure.
Soon the dome would be in complete darkness, he thought confidently, smiling to himself. He stood ridged and conceited in his indulgent arrogance. His body, the immortal body of a perfect 28 year old man, flexed with desire.
He felt indestructible and drunk on his own self-image.
The Imperial City, all but deserted after another day of fighting lay broken, burnt and twisted below. The city that he looked down on had once been lined with the most exquisite architecture in the Aquila Constellation.
Now, it stood darkened and scarred by the fires that continued to burn into the night. Ornate fountains and statues in the Gardens Of Tranquillity, were now piles of rubble on the scorched ground.
Nothing had been spared, only rubble and ashy remains lay littered and smouldering across the ground. Ambers floated in the smoky air, carried by random gusts of wind. Beauty no longer represented in the burnt remains of the Imperial City.
A small hooded figure darted vigilantly over the rubble, searching for signs of life among the torn and bloodied bodies. Her sorrowful pursuit was swiftly becoming a fruitless one.
Soaring flames roared into the night sky, lighting her way, as they licked, teased and devoured the remainder of the Imperial City, the home of the Seven Pinnacles. The keepers of mortal souls.
Thousands of souls had already perished during the past 99 days of war. Thousands more would perish during this battle fought between good and evil. The war would rage on between the two most powerful houses of the Imperial City until only one remained. The House of the Bulguardians, the Royal guard of The Imperial City or the rebellious fallen House of the Grigorians.
The Grigorians, following the expulsion of their elders from the City by the Royal Imperial Guardians, were forced to flee Empyrean. Now, after centuries spent underground, the Grigorians were bloodthirsty for revenge - and at any cost.
During the March equinox, under the dark cover of night, the Grigorians rose silently from the depths of their underworld lair, attacking the Royal Palace as it slept.
About time, Abaddon thought angrily to himself, as he turned swiftly toward the towering arched entrance.
Seconds later a female stood regally in the stone entry. “Abaddon..." The exquisite woman queried as she entered the great chamber, hands clasped at her waist.
His expression was unsettling as she advanced toward him cautiously. Her tight deep purple gown almost hidden by the long black cape that trailed behind. Her fair hair, adorned beautifully with gemstones, was entwined in a continuous braid crowning her head. Her eyes, a mirror image of his, catlike, were the mark of the Grigorian bloodline.
His arms remained folded across his inflated chest. “Cousin, where are the others, your sister, your brother?” He demanded.
“They are…they have other things on their mind, they will be ready when the time comes, I can assure you,” she replied, pausing at a safe distance from him. Avoiding his penetrating glare, she knew he could read her mind, all of their minds if he chose to with direct eye contact. Without direct eye contact however, he could only sense ones presence, but not their thoughts. His violent temper was also no secret. She had been a victim of it herself on many occasions.
“Oh I am sure I can imagine what they have had on their minds,” he said circling her.
“Your attendance here however, is a testament to your commitment to the cause Siena.” A sly smile crossed his lips. He liked knowing that she feared him. He revelled in being feared. It made him feel more powerful, superior.
His slit eyes flashed to the entrance, as he sensed another’s imminent arrival. He turned in greeting as a girl, his younger sibling, no more than thirteen, entered the smoky room and ran toward him.
“Ah, little sister, how divine you look my child.” He swung her up into his arms, as a groom would a new bride, and kissed her hard on the mouth. She did not resist, but welcomed it.
“Abaddon,” she chirped through smiling rose coloured lips, running her fingers through his dark shoulder length hair, “always an absolute pleasure of course…now, please put me down…AND…I am NOT a child!”
He laughed and released her to the marbled floor, running his hand down her flowing red hair. “You will always be a beautiful voracious child to me Theria…”
She slapped his hand away, infuriated by his comment. A snarling hiss broke free of her lips.
“Don’t mock me Abaddon, if I recall correctly it wasn’t that long ago that…”
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted. She snapped her head around, something, someone else, had distracted her thoughts.
Abaddon and Siena followed Theria’s line of vision toward the massive stone archway as another prepared to enter the torch lit chamber. The dainty red head darted forward in a blur to prevent the immanent intrusion. Her black cloak sliced through the rancid air, parting the obnoxious smoke with the sheer ferocity of her swift movement. Rage evident in her penetrating, catlike eyes. Eyes that had the ability to paralyse her victims instantly if she desired, rendering them useless. She glared directly into the crystal blue eyes of the unwelcomed impostor.
The newcomer was stunning. Her unflinching blue eyes held those of the child’s. “Well, well, what do we have here, a family meeting, how sweet…” She walked around the child, and turned her back on the others as she walked graciously along the black marble floor toward the single golden throne.
Their piercing gazes watched as they followed her, stalking her. Pandora could feel their stabbing eyes on the back of her neck as she walked up the seven steps leading to the Royal throne. She rested gently against the velvet armrest, implying possession.
“Why wasn’t I invited to this family meeting…I am heartbroken, how will I ever recover from the pain of rejection?” She chuckled, glancing now toward Abaddon who had paused at the bottom of the steps, pleased that he was unable to read her thoughts. That must infuriate him, she thought. None of their powers had any effect on her, except Theria’s.
“Why Pandora,” Theria hissed through clenched teeth, “I’m sure you will recuperate in bed by wrapping your thighs around Cerberus’s neck. You may have a ring on your finger and whore your body to my brother at every opportunity you get, but don’t you ever dare to have the audacity to think for one second that you are family, that you belong, YOU are nothing! You were dragged off the streets because of Cerberus’s moment of weakness for your beauty… and your obvious willingness to please him. He is infatuated by your kind, nothing more!” The child’s hatred evident on her pristine face. If Theria could not have the love and devotion from her elder brother Lord Cerberus, then no one would.
Pandora’s crystal laughter bounced off the cold stone walls that surrounded them. She stood, raised her hands, palms up, and slowly turned, displaying herself. Her golden ringlets fell effortlessly to her slender waist. Her exquisite beauty undeniable to all who saw her. She was clothed in a blood red floor length gown. The low cut strapless bodice, that displayed her perfect breasts, was embedded with countless diamonds, pearls and rubies. A diamond encrusted necklace resembling a spider’s web sat effortlessly around her throat and cascaded down her slender shoulders.
She was perfection, the quintessence of beauty. Cerberus did indeed have a motive to worship her. Many envied him his position as Lord of the House; his title enabled him his freedom to bring a foreigner into the Grigorian clan. No one would dare question his decisions.
Theria had objected angrily to her brother…once. However, she quickly realised that Cerberus only found humour in her objections. He threw back his head in laughter, humiliating her, calling her childish. She had sulked from the room, angry; he had never denied her anything before. Theria had left Cerberus sitting on his newly acquired throne, one of his leather clad legs thrown up over the velvety armrest, his laughter ringing in her ears. He had never put a human’s needs before hers. She would devise of a plan to dispose of the human Pandora. She was not welcome in Theria’s world.
“Jealous, little one,” Pandora whispered now in condescending tones, taunting her, “It is no secret that you would like Cerberus all for yourself. The fact that he is your brother means nothing to you does it, poor delusional Theria. You will only ever be a child in his eyes, never a real woman…” Pandora froze mid sentence, unable to move, breathe. Her eye’s opened wide with absolute terror as Theria appeared swiftly by her side. Pandora remained frozen as the child hovered around her. Theria laughed and glanced at Abaddon still standing at the bottom of the stairs, as if seeking his permission.
Abaddon, abruptly aware of his little sister’s intentions, leapt forward in one bound and grabbed her tiny wrist that was concealed beneath her cloak. A small silver dagger with an emerald and diamond encrusted handle slipped from Theria’s grasp. The sound of the blade echoing around the room as it clattered to the cold marble floor by her feet.
“Release her,” he hissed at the girl.
Theria’s piercing eyes reluctantly released Pandora. She dropped to her knees and painfully sucked in a heaving breath, filling her burning lungs. Pandora slowly rose to her feet, took a step back and wrapped herself securely in her arms.
She knew the girl had enormous powers, that she could paralyse her victims on a single whim. She had been foolish to taunt the girl.....

Soul Protector, (Amanda Leigh Cowley) - halfway through chapter 1 because I couldn't fit it all in...

I opened my eyes and the restaurant came back into view, but something was different. Something was very wrong. I’d been facing the main door before, I was sure of it, but now I was turned towards the kitchen. Even that seemed insignificant. It was a far more disturbing situation causing my heart to thump. In the blink of an eye Lydia had gone. In her place, the face staring back at me was my own.

I squeezed my eyes shut again. When I opened them slowly, I was horrified to find I was still looking at myself and a gasp escaped from my lips. Standing in front of me, my mirror image returned my gaze with one eyebrow raised. I noticed she was discreetly wiping a tear from under her eyelashes.

Paralysed with fear, I couldn’t speak. Any moment now everything will go back to the way it should be. I felt my heart hammering in my chest, as the blood rushed in my ears.

I glanced around; surprised that everyone else was carrying on as normal. Why aren’t they shocked there are two of us? It didn’t make any sense. As panic overwhelmed me, I began to feel woozy, and my vision started to close in...

The next thing I remembered was lying on the floor, and MyPhil kneeling by my side, supporting my head. He was talking to me, but the words sounded like they were coming from far away. I felt a glass being pressed against my lips.

“Here you go, Lydia. Just have a sip for me.”

What? Why is he calling me Lydia?

“Come on, darling. You just passed out for a minute. Have a sip and you’ll feel better.”

I did as I was told, and the icy water felt cold against my dry mouth, crashing me back into the present.

“Thanks,” I croaked, my voice not sounding right. I tried again, “I think I’m okay now.” What the…? That really doesn’t sound like me.

I lifted my hand to my face to wipe away some water which had spilled down my chin, and as I did, I caught a glimpse of my ring. In fact it was Lydia’s new diamond ring, but it was on my finger. Embarrassed, I scrabbled to get it off, but as I clawed at my finger, it was no use. The ring wasn’t budging.

“What’s wrong?” MyPhil asked. His face was pulled into a worried frown. “Do you want to sit up?”

“Yes, I think..,” I couldn’t get used to the higher pitch of my voice. “I think I should go to the Ladies.” I needed to get away from everyone and sort myself out.

“Let me help.” There was my voice, but it was the other Gracie who had formed the words.

She reached over to put an arm around me. I shrugged her off. “I’m fine, really.” I didn’t want her help. She was freaking me out.

Panic was making me hot and sticky, causing my perfume to intensify and take on a different aroma. All I wanted was to get away from everyone so I could try and figure out what was going on. I grabbed my bag, turned my back on their bewildered faces and made my way over to the toilets at the back of the restaurant. As I walked across the room, I felt different – taller.

I was aware that some of the other diners were staring at me, so I focussed down at the wooden floor. That’s when I caught a glimpse of my feet. The boots that had been excruciating earlier were gone, and in their place was a pair of elegant black shoes I didn’t recognise.

I opened the door to the ladies and was frustrated to see several others in there, washing hands and applying lippy. I made my way into a cubicle and turned to shut the door. That’s when I saw my reflection for the first time. It definitely wasn’t me. Looking back was a tall, attractive girl with long blonde wavy hair. I was looking at Lydia.

I banged the door shut, and sagged onto the toilet seat. This can’t be happening. I took in a deep, shaky breath, and blew it out slowly. I reached into my bag and pulled out my pocket mirror. I flipped it open and sure enough, staring back at me was not the face I’d had reflected back all my life. Beautiful brown eyes stared back into my own. I shot a hand up to my face and, trembling, I traced Lydia’s features. I touched her long lashes, neat nose and full lips. Everything felt alien.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. There had to be a logical explanation, I just couldn’t think of one. My mind was racing, and it was a struggle to order my thoughts. But the more I tried to focus the more I became aware of a ringing sound in my ears. It was a bit like hushed voices, but there was nothing I could make any sense of.

From outside my cubicle I heard another voice loud and clear, my voice.

“Lydia, are you in there? Is everything alright, hun?”

Damn, ‘Gracie’ must have followed me in. But I was Gracie and if I was in Lydia’s body, was she in mine?

“I’m okay,” I said, trying to erase the panic from my voice.

I needed to talk to her to try and understand what was happening, but I didn’t want to start sounding like a mad woman in front of these other people.

I stood up, praying my wobbly legs would support me, unlocked the door and walked out of the cubicle. I could see she was looking at me with concern, but she definitely wasn’t at the same level of panic that I was.

“You took the wrong bag,” she stated simply, holding out Lydia’s bag towards me.

I looked at the bag I was holding, my bag, ‘Gracie’s bag.

“Come on Lyd, Phil’s getting worried. He’s going to take you home,” she said, holding her other hand out towards me.

I reached out to grasp it with just one thought. I wanted the nightmare to end and everything to go back to normal. With this in mind, I had that weird disorientation thing again. Dizziness overwhelmed me, and I could see bright lights. I really thought I was passing out again. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the buzzing tone to disappear. And when I opened them, everything had gone back to normal. Just like that. I was facing the other way now, looking at Lydia. She was staring into space, like she was in a daydream. The other women were carrying on as normal, putting on their make-up and chatting. Not one of them seemed to have noticed something extraordinary had just occurred.

I flicked my eyes across to the giant mirror above the washbasins to confirm that I really was me again.

“What. Just. Happened?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice calm.

Lydia snapped out of her daydream and met my gaze. “What… Oh, the fainting thing?”

She took in my serious expression and laughed.

“Don’t make a big fuss, Gracie. I think it was the excitement of my Phil proposing. I felt a bit lightheaded and I guess I just passed out, but I’m fine now. Come on let’s go back to the table.”

I exhaled sharply. Unbelievable. It was as if she had never left her body. What’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with me?

We made our way back to the others, and everyone started fussing around Lydia. She refused MyPhil’s attempts to take her home and played it all down. She said she was fine, maybe too much wine or something.

But I wasn’t fine, I was completely traumatised. I decided to say nothing on the subject for the time-being. I had a thousand questions running through my mind and my head was throbbing, so I passed on dessert, made my excuses and left early. No one was too concerned. They were all still worried about Lydia.

The whole walk back to the flat, the body-switch thing played through my mind on a loop. What the hell was all that about? I went over and over the details, but I couldn’t find a logical explanation.

I let myself into the flat and replied to Kerry’s text to let her know I was home in one piece. Unable to shake off the surreal feeling, I decided to try and sleep on it. I told myself things would seem better in the morning - they always did. I grabbed a glass of water and made my way to the bedroom, convinced I wouldn’t be able to switch off my racing mind. Minutes later, I fell into an exhausted sleep.

'Tom Fleck' A novel of Cleveland and Flodden. (By Harry Nicholson)

How it opens:

In marshy woodland, North-East England.

29th June 1513

Wings clattered through branches. Tom Fleck stayed his axe in mid-swing as two wood pigeons flung themselves into the mist. He looked down at the dog as her throat rumbled. She raised a paw, shot him a glance, then - ears cocked - faced along the track. Metal clinked somewhere.
He whispered, 'Whisht now. Come away.'
Soft-footed, they crept off the path and into a thicket. They huddled close together, among ferns and willow stems, as the cracking of twigs grew louder and voices filtered through the dripping trees.
'It's thinning - a wind's sprung up.' The helmeted man seemed a giant as he squelched past Tom's hiding place. Two other burly men followed; all three wore green and white tunics. One of them groaned as his leg plunged into the mire. He wrested it free.
'Shite! My boot's full o' clarts! How much more o' this, Sarge?'
'The river's close I reckon.' The giant paused. 'Though it's a few years since I was this way.'
Five more tunic-clad men pushed out of the mist; all had round shields on their backs and swords at their belts. They trudged alongside a pair of black horses. Each horse carried a gentleman cloaked in red. Three brown-smocked labourers, holding the ropes of pack-ponies, took up the rear. The column wound through the dripping alders until a fallen tree blocked the way.
Tom tried to work out who they were, he'd seen that green and white before - at the manor house. It meant power that cared naught for the likes of him - power that could seize a man and take him away. In these times it made sense to hug the ground and just watch.
The giant raised an arm. 'A dead wind-throw. She's hacked about like someone's been at her for kindling - I did hear an axe.' Tom shrank lower as the seamed face looked around. 'But we need to get on. We'll work our way around it. Dobson, you see nobody tumbles into that root-pit.'
Tom squinted through the sodden ferns. The shattered roots of the ancient alder reared above the strangers' heads like the antlers of stags entangled in combat. The mass groaned as the trunk settled deeper into the mire. A horse snorted and shied away; the rider cursing as he heaved on the reins. Tom flinched as the mount staggered sideways off the track and sank onto its forelegs in the ooze. With gasps and snorts it pulled free, pitching the rider from the saddle. A pair of over-fleshed buttocks thudded into the mud.
'God damn!' The man clambered to his feet. He glowered at his stained breeches then punched the horse on the neck. 'Blast you, nag! You and this bloody bog!' The reedy voice choked into a squeak.
His lean companion looked down from the saddle. 'Hold yoursen together, York. After the ford we'll be on ground more to your comfort - and only two hours from the soft bed you crave.'
Tom wrapped a hand around the dog's muzzle and stroked her neck with the other. He saw two bearded men grin at each other as they splashed forward to grab the horse's bridle. One shoved a biscuit under its nose while the other calmed the shivering beast and held it for the rider to remount. Back in the saddle the man, face as red as his cloak, wiped his brow then yelped, 'My ring! It's gone from my hand! It'll be in the mud. Find it! I'll give a reward.'
The dog's muffled snort went unheard as men laughed while they grubbed among the rushes. Tom glanced at the pack-ponies stood in a line, heads drooping. Their drivers squatted, chewing crusts, indifferent to the pony-dung that thudded around them. As the mist condensed into drizzle the two gentlemen pulled down their hats and moved to the shelter of a tree on drier ground. With their backs against the trunk they drew out corks and sipped from flasks. Tom caught the searchers' low banter:
'Yon will have a sore arse. He hit the deck like a sack of cabbages.'
'More like that feather-bed wench at the inn last night, when she skidded in your slopped ale.'
'Hast' seen his cacky bum?'
'Get on with it, Jones.' The giant spat, then growled, 'Have a care - if York hears thee mock him, he'll not forget.'
'It should fetch some coin, eh, Sarge? What's the reward do ye reckon?'
'Knowing him - a piss-pot of sour ale,' someone cackled.
'We'll have to see. Now clam up, Bentley! Get cracking or we'll be camping out in this muck.'
Taking a final sip before pushing the stopper back into his flask, the lean gentleman called out, 'Sergeant! It's late. If we don't make Norton by dark, we sleep rough. In an hour the tide runs up river, and we've yet to ford the Tees. Two men will return at dawn to search again.'
'Aye, sir.' The giant snapped a branch off the fallen tree, broke it twice across his knee and pushed the pieces upright into the mud. He rubbed his big palms together. 'That's marked the spot - now let's get shifted.'

Through the tracery of twigs, Tom Fleck's keen eyes had also marked the spot. A shower of heavy drops, from the leaf canopy overhead, began to drum against his leather skullcap and the shoulders of his battered jerkin, but he did not move. Midges were becoming lost in his young beard; he scratched at the itches but stayed crouched. When the last pony had faded into the gloom, he listened on. After a few minutes the agitated tew-tew . . . pity me . . . pity me . . . cries of the pair of sandpipers that nested on the riverbank told him the travellers had reached the ford.
At a snort from the dog he took his hand from around her jaws. 'They're away now, Meg - whoever they were. Stay hushed while we see what might be sniffed out yonder. Come on.'
He rapidly scanned the flattened bog plants mangled by boots and hooves, then the bruised earth, until he became aware of a hollow. Shaped by a beefy backside, he thought - so one stride away is where the rider's hands would grab the ground to crawl back onto the track.
Stretching out an arm, he snapped his fingers. 'Seek!'
The little black mongrel rushed to the spot, tail wagging in a blur. She circled a few times, nostrils sweeping the ground. She stopped, lifted a paw, stiffened her tail, pointed her nose close to the earth and let out a whine.
'Shift,' he whispered and pushed her snout away to rake his fingers among the roots. They closed on a hard, round shape. He wiped the lump on his sleeve, held it up and saw a golden gleam. Trembling, he looked around, but the vague shape of a night screecher, perched on a high branch, made the sole witness. The owl bobbed its head a few times then launched on silent wings deeper into the trees.
He dropped the object into his skin bag, safe among the moss that wrapped a clutch of mallard eggs. The dog's ears got a quick rub before he slipped the axe into his belt, picked up a bundle of firewood and heaved it across his shoulders.
'Right, let's away for our supper.'


'Tom Fleck' is 226 pages in paperback. There is a Kindle version. Both are listed on Amazon.

(I've also posted this on my website)
Author Site: www.angiewest.wordpress.com
Book Site: http://thefifthhour.weebly.com

Chapter One

"Midnight ghost-hunting sucks." There she’d said it. The one thought that had been on the tip of her tongue and held back repeatedly had finally been given life and a 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. Almost.
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.
"Well it does." Ginger muttered in her own defense.
"What?"
"Suck. This sucks." Why did he keep making her be the bad guy by forcing her to own up to what any sane rational living being would be feeling under such bizarre circumstances?
Except he really hadn’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. He 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.
"If that’s how you feel. . ."
"It’s . . . not."
"Really."
"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 heat up?" She countered.
"A cold environment is more conducive to-"
"Chris."
"Fine." His lips pressed together in a thin line.
"I’ll turn the heat up. Up. Not on. The heat is already on."
"Sixty-five degrees is not having the heat on. It’s trying to turn your sister into an ice cube." The grousing earned her 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.
"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 from her face and barely resisted the urge to cringe at the memory.
"Fine. I'll apologize to Adam."
"Don’t bother- we broke up."
"Was it the video?"
"Yes damn it- it was the video."
"Won’t happen again." He crossed his fingers in front of his chest as though he were some sort of modern day boy scout.
"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 coins. 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. 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 help 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 the hell can make out anything in the dark?" She countered. Ginger one Chris zero . . . and on his way to the nut house 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 this 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 a glass of icy juice in a single unladylike gulp before rinsing the glass and setting 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 grumbled, eyeing 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 enough 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 sink and knocked her cell phone into the toilet trying to retrieve her make-up from its watery demise. In the end, both telephone and cosmetic had perished. The water logged 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, hastily decided to shave the space between her eyebrows. Normally, 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 about done when Chris burst through the door, barreling into the bathroom, sending the heavy door crashing into her shoulder with jarring impact. 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 small amount of scorn and decided she was as ready as she was likely to get. She grabbed her purse, scowled at Chris, and managed to make it to Grans 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 groused, 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 Grans aging tweed sofa.
That anyone had ever thought tweed was a good choice of fabric for a sofa was beyond absurd to Ginger. 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, fuscia cup holders…the only thing in the tidy living room that wasn’t pink was the dreaded tweed plaid couch and the draperies on the windows. Those were blue, done ironically enough in the very same silvery shade of aqua as Grans bi-monthly hair rinse. The thunk-thunking resumed a minute later, signaling the old woman’s arrival a full two minutes before she entered the room.
“Don’t just stand there, girl, open the door and let’s get the hell out of here.”
The drive to their next stop took considerably longer than the initial thrill ride to the assisted living complex. Ginger knew from experience that Gran considered anything over 20 mph 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 aching legs. The memory came to her, unbidden, of mornings where her muscles would ache for an entirely different reason. Adam...
”Don’t think about him.” She commanded herself through her teeth.
“What was that?”
“Nothing Gran. Are you ready?” She tried for a chipper tone, falling 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 here talking to yourself all morning.”
“I wasn’t-oh forget it.” Ginger sighed. “Here, let me help you.”
Gran creaked and groaned her way to a standing position and, walker firmly in place, trudged up 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 run and go get it.”
“No, no” Gingers eyes widened in horror, “You stay put Gran, I’ll run and get it.”
“But I could fall and break a hip.” She 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 should be so lucky.” Ginger muttered under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” She tossed over her shoulder, refusing to meet Grans eyes. She could practically feel them boring into her back as she dashed out the door and into the sun baked parking lot, retrieving the purse in a matter of seconds, stopping 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 Store, and the pharmacy. Gran always saved the pharmacy for last, despite protests from her family. They never arrived earlier than four-thirty pm and were always asked to leave at the posted five pm closing time.
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