Foreword
Ghosted was originally published in the All the Love the World Anthology. While it’s a novella (told in Dex’s POV), it’s important that it be read after Veiled and before Came Back Haunted. The last book in the EIT series before this was Dust to Dust #9, however Ghosted takes place after Veiled (the EIT spinoff about Ada), so it makes sense to read it after Veiled.
Came Back Haunted picks up where this story left off, so strap yourself in and get ready for the return of Dex and Perry!
Chapter 1
“Excuse me, are you Dex Foray?”
I stop in my tracks as I’m walking past the Chief of Seattle statue in Tilikum Place, and look over my shoulder at a Danny Devito-sized man hurrying toward me, clutching an oversized trench coat around him that flaps in the cold breeze. Can’t pretend I didn’t see the man loitering outside of the apartment moments earlier, having followed me down the block. Of course, with my fucking luck, this is the type of stalker I get.
“You don’t know me,” he says breathlessly, his voice coarse and nasal. He holds out one hand while trying to keep his coat closed with the other. “I’m Harry. Harry Cox.”
Don’t laugh. Don’t fucking laugh.
I bite back a grin, and turn around, staring at his hand for a moment before I give a hesitant shake. It’s small, chubby, clammy. I imagine it’s like shaking hands with a starfish.
“How do you know who I am?” I ask him, just as the wind whips a fallen yellow leaf into his face, sticking to his black-rimmed glasses. “Better yet, how did you know where I live?”
He reaches up and hastily wipes the leaf away.
“Your address is on your website. I’ve been trying to reach you for a long time,” he says, giving me an apologetic smile. I’m a pro at reading people’s energies these days, more than I want to be, and this guy is anxious as fuck, which in turn sets me on edge. “But all my emails have gone unanswered. I’ve left some messages too.”
“With who?”
“With whom,” the man corrects me, and what a fucking dickladle this guy is. “I don’t know. I used the contact form through your website and I’ve left a few messages on your voicemail.”
“My wife handles those,” I tell him, folding my arms across my chest. Perry runs a pretty tight ship when it comes to managing Haunted Media, our video production company, so it surprises me that she’d drop the ball with this guy. “And you’re what, a band manager?” I squint at his attire. “Accountant?”
“As I’ve said on my many voice messages and emails,” he says, his voice growing a pitch higher, “I’m not interested in your video services. I’m interested in your other services.”
I frown. Like…sexually?
I raise my brow. “Well, Mr., uh, Cox. I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. We run a studio, primarily for music video production. We don’t have any other type of business. Or services. Of any kind. And if you don’t mind, I need to pick up my pizza before it gets cold.” I jerk my head toward Zeek’s, our local pizza parlor, before heading down the street toward it.
“Experiment in Terror,” he calls out from behind me.
I stop.
He walks around me, getting between me and the pizza place. “I need those services.”
I blink at him, trying to figure him out. His anxiety is still through the roof, but it’s coupled with something else. Desperation. It rises out of him, like steam from a turd. A most unsettling image.
“We don’t…you know that was just a show, right?”
“You saw those ghosts. I know they were real,” he says, his eyes sparking beneath his glasses. “I know they’re real too. That the monsters really do live under our beds.”
Okay, now he’s looking a tad erratic. I can’t say that Perry and I don’t get stopped on the street from time to time by people who were fans of EIT, asking us if we’re going to do another episode, grilling us about what was real, or just wanting a lame-ass photo. But this guy…this guy’s not like them.
“Look, Mr. Cox, I don’t understand what this is about,” I tell him firmly. “Whether what we filmed was real or not, that’s all done with. It’s over. We haven’t filmed a show in over three years.”
“But you talk to the dead!” he cries out, loud enough that the people walking past us on street pause, give us a funny look. “That can’t just go away. That’s in you. That stays in you.”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s about to go a little fucknuts on me. I know crazy, believe me, and he’s walking a fine line here.
“It doesn’t go away,” I tell him carefully, though I’m not sure why I’m being honest with someone I don’t know. “That’s the truth. And that’s one reason out of many why we don’t do the show anymore. We wanted to leave that chapter behind, if we could help it. Now, I’m sorry, but—”
“My wife died,” he says softly, grabbing at his glasses with fumbling fingers and quickly wiping his eyes. He inhales sharply, slips the glasses back on. “She died. A year ago. I need you to talk to her. I know she’s still in the house.”
I swallow, now picking up on his sorrow. It’s overwhelming.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, trying to distance myself from his emotions, which ripple through the air. “How did she die?”
“She…drowned.”
“And she’s still in your house?”
“She’s in the house. Our old house. I don’t live there anymore. It’s boarded up.”
“Listen, I’m not a paranormal investigator. I never was. Maybe a paranormal shit-disturber, at best.”
“You can see things that others can’t.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m a medium.”
“Your wife is.”
I frown at him, tilting my head, a thread of defensiveness running through me whenever Perry is mentioned. “How would you know that?”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen the footage.”
“You’re making an awful load of assumptions from some grainy videos,” I tell him. “She’s not any of those things either. We’re just two people who went through some crazy fucking shit, who are trying to lead an ordinary life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”
I turn to leave but the man reaches out and grabs my forearm, hard.
A current of anger flows through me and I have to breathe in sharply to keep it at bay. I don’t appreciate being manhandled on the street by low-rent Danny Devito and his tiny baby hands.
“I’ll pay you,” he says. “I’ll pay you a lot of money. I just want you to come by, the both of you, go to the house, and talk to her. You don’t have to film it. I just want to know what my wife has to say. I have questions. I need answers.”
I rip my arm out of his grasp and take a step back. “How much money?”
The man looks around us, as if he’s finally getting the clue that he should have kept his voice down this whole time. He leans in to me. “A hundred grand.”